


the boy with the trident

by queenofglass



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“While other tributes that year were hard-pressed to get a handful of grain or some matches for a gift, Finnick never wanted for anything, not food or medicine or weapons.”</em><br/>How Finnick Odair won the crown, wooed Panem, and became a legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun is just breaking over the horizon. Even from my bed, I can see the water turning colors—pink, orange, gold. The boats in port sway gently in the current. It’s a beautiful day.

I slide an arm behind my head, sighing. In moments like these, I can forget all about the Capitol and their Games. Their artificial beauty can’t compare to 4.

Today is my third Reaping. In a few hours, more boats will be arriving in the bay. All of the eligible children will head for the center of town. I’ll wear my best shirt, touch the circle of rope around my wrist, then stand with the other boys my age. We’ll wait for the noose to tighten around one of us, like a school of doomed fish.

I can hear my sisters moving toward the door, whispering. For their sakes, I close my eyes and feign sleep.

“Ssh, for goodness sake, Lucia. Can you reign in the hormones, just for today?”

“Shut _up_!”

I cough, trying not to laugh. The three of them have always bickered; growing up in a house with it has been somewhat of a nightmare. After another round of hissing, the room is quiet, save for the waves breaking just below the window.

Lucia, seven months pregnant and hopelessly hormonal, is the first to squeeze into the bed. Her coarse rope neckace, knotted at the nape of her neck, tickles my nose. Phoebe curls up against my back, her head sharing the same pillow. Emilia manages to find room, her bony elbows digging at my shins.

I’m not sure when this tradition was born. I suppose it started with Lucia and Phoebe, only two years apart, supporting each other (and Emilia, when her time came) until their Reapings were over. I had been a surprise for the Odairs; Lucia was already twelve years old when I was born. Now that all three of my sisters are safe from the Hunger Games, they’ve transferred their worry onto me, the baby of the family.

“I bet all of Panem envies me,” I say at last, watching the sun bring the day. “In bed with three women.”

“How long have you been awake?” Emilia demands, slapping my knee.

“Since before you came in,” I grin.

“Why do we even bother? You always know.”

“Because you love me.”

Lucia snorts. “What a brat.”

I smile, then let the conversation end there. The four of us are a tight, stubborn bunch. No one wants to move around and start the day, especially a Reaping Day. Finally, when our mother calls up the stairs, I sigh.

“I should get ready.”

When I rejoin my family in the kitchen, my shirt is buttoned. My hair is combed. Even my smile is neat and tidy. My father nods approvingly at my appearance.

“You look like your grandfather,” he says, looking wistful.

“He looks _hungry_ ,” my mother scolds, sliding a steaming bowl of soup in my direction. I wink and dig in, nodding my head every so often. Dad likes to go over important fighting techniques before each Reaping, even if we’ve perfected them. I’ve grown up this way.

District 4 trains their children, same as 1 and 2. There are families like the Drogues, who teach weaponry from birth; the Ensigns, who train their huge brood like machines; and us, the Odairs, who train as a precautionary measure.

“The boys still asleep?” My father asks Lucia, nodding toward the ceiling. She rolls her eyes.

“Yes, they are.”

“Maybe you can volunteer for me, Lucia. You can hide weapons under your shirt and no one will ever suspect a thing.”

She points her spoon at me warningly. “That smart mouth is going to get you into trouble.”

———

After Mayor Karanos completes the history of the Games, he reads the list of victors from 4. The oldest is a woman named Mags, who still serves as a mentor. As expected from a Career district, there is a large pool of winners.

“Happy Hunger Games!” Septima Cork, the escort of our district, trills. With blue hair and rubies embedded in her skin, she resembles a cheerful jellyfish. “May the odds _ever_ be in your favor!”

The girls in the audience stiffen when Septima crosses the stage. Her clawlike fingers close around a slip of paper, and she returns to the microphone.

“Eloise Waverly!”

The hulking girl lunges her way out of the eighteen year old section, knocking several of her agemates to the ground. Grinning eagerly, she waves to a number of friends and family, who cheer in response. I’ve seen her around school; contrary to her delicate name, she’s known for tossing twelve year olds into the harbor.

“Such enthusiasiam!” Septima crows, patting Eloise on the shoulder. “I take it that you won’t be needing volunteers?”

District 4 is a bit strange when it comes to volunteering. In other districts, someone can volunteer simply by declaring so. Here, the escort usually asks the tribute if they _want_ a volunteer. No one ever accepts one; it’s just not done. Though being picked can mean certain death, disappointing our parents is the greater of two evils.

“None,” the girl growls. More cheers sound from the audience.

After the crowd quiets down, Septima crosses the stage again, her hand digging into the second container. From my position, I see every boy tense. Some with fear, some with excitement, others with raw nerves. The eighteen year olds, standing directly in front of the stage, stand the tallest. This is their last chance.

I have a number of cousins in the Reaping today. The girls are safe for another year; now, all I can do is wait.

I glance over my shoulder, past the rows of younger boys. Emilia is the closest to me, her green eyes slitted with worry. I wink at her and face the front again.

“Our brave boy tribute is . . . ” she beams, heightening the suspense. “Finnick Odair!”

For a moment, I can’t move. I’ve been bred for these Games, and yet all I can think about is how I might never see my sister's baby. I might never swim in these waters, or kiss another pretty girl. For ten solid seconds, I’m frozen.

Someone elbows me; startled, I step out of line and begin to walk to the stage, my head held high. Odairs are not cowards. Odairs are not afraid.

“Finnick!”

I feel a small body press against my back, tiny fists clutching the shirt. Unperturbed, I hoist him up onto my back and make my way to Septima.

“Well, who do we have here?” she exclaims.

I lean toward the microphone, deciding that this situation can be defused quite easily. “This is my nephew, Owen. Septima, I think he wants to volunteer for me.”

A round of laughter echoes through the audience. I relax, feeling Owen nestle against my shoulders. Faintly, I can see my sister in the back of the crowd, wringing her hands. Whether it’s for me or her son, I’m not sure. Erik, her husband, has his arm around her.

“I’m sorry Owen, but one must be twelve in order to particpate,” she laughs. “How old are you?”

His voice is muffled. “Five.”

“He’s a bit overexcited,” I joke. “Owen, show the Capitol how fast you are. Run back to your parents.”

Obediently, he darts through the crowd, jumping into his father’s arms. Septima leads a round of good-natured applause for Owen’s courage, decreeing it to be “charming.”

“Other than your nephew, any volunteers, Mr. Odair?”

“No ma’am,” I say firmly, watching the eighteen year olds scowl. “None at all.”

“Then there we have it! Your tributes for District Four!”

The roar of the audience is deafening, like a wave crashing along the shore. I lift a hand as if to acknowledge it, but I’m really searching for the rest of my family. Only Lucia stands out in the sea of faces, and hers is full of fear.

 _Odairs are not afraid._

Mayor Karanos ascends the podium to finish the script. When Eloise and I shake hands, she attempts to break my fingers; I squeeze back with a cold iron grip.

 _Odairs are not cowards._

———

The Peacekeepers escort us inside the Justice Building, where we are directed to separate rooms. Once I’m alone, I trace the bracelet around my wrist. Phoebe braided it for my tenth birthday, and since then, I’ve never taken it off. I like to think of it as a good luck charm.

Today, I can’t decide if it’s brought me glory or misfortune.

There’s only one hour set aside for goodbyes. I wonder if I’ll get to see _all_ of my big family in sixty minutes. Now that it’s my time to waste, it seems much shorter.

My parents are sent in first.

“You come back,” my mother says fiercely, wrapping her arms around me. I kiss her cheek and smile.

“Remember everything I taught you,” my father whispers when it’s his turn. “One and Two might want an alliance. If all else fails, run.”

“Odairs are not afraid,” I say aloud, wondering how many times I have to repeat that until it comes true. As a Career, I do have potential to win.

I’m glad I waved off volunteers. I’m taller than most boys in the district, even the older ones. Years on the boat have made me strong, but it’s not enough. I’ve never been hungry. There will be tributes out for my blood.

It’s kill or be killed.

“Your sisters want to see you. We all have faith, Finnick.”

Lucia is the first to run inside (surprisingly fast, for a woman so far along), accompanied by Phoebe, Erik, and Emilia. Phoebe and Erik are stoic, not succumbing to tears; I’m relieved for that.

“We’re rooting for you, Finn,” Phoebe says when she pulls away. “Come home.”

“I will,” I promise, and for a moment, I almost believe it. After my sisters leave, the aunts and uncles swoop in, followed closely by my horde of cousins. They too wish me luck, and I’m showered with hugs, kisses, and well wishes.

Owen is sent in last; there are few words between us. I simply hug him and try to memorize what I can of my nephew. His hair is coal black, his eyes a deep blue. He has freckles across his nose and a pair of big ears. _The girls will chase after him when he’s old enough_ , I think.

The hour is up too soon; unsaid sentiments stick in my throat. With only five minutes remaining, Phoebe darts into the room again, looking frazzled.

“A token,” she says breathlessly. “I forgot you don’t have a token.”

I stand still as she lifts the necklace over my head. It’s silver, with a long chain and an anchor in hanging from the middle. I recognize it; the necklace is an Odair family heirloom. The eldest child is always the first to wear it. Uncle Adrian must have passed it along. I suddenly feel braver.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, kissing her forehead. “I’ll keep it safe.”

She backs out of the room, tears in her eyes at last. I force a smile until the door closes. In the silence, I can hear the ocean; the waves are smashing against the rocks.

The Peacekeepers, silent and efficient, escort Eloise and I to the train. Reporters brandishing microphones and cameras swarm us, eager for that one glimpse of fresh tributes. I smile automatically, lifting a hand to wave. Emilia always jokes that my smile is my ticket out of trouble. _No one can resist it_ , she says.

Though I live in one of the wealthier districts of Panem, the train is still an amazing sight. The speed is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced; even in the worst storm, no boat moves this fast.

My assigned chambers are bigger than most of the rooms back home. Everything is covered in something green or blue, like the ocean. Instead of being a comfort, it only makes me miss it all the more.

I rummage around in the drawers for new clothes and set them aside for later. Finally, I slip off my shoes and climb into bed, dreaming of the sea.

———

“You’ll be training with Mags, Finnick.”

Osric Huron won the Games nine years ago, when he was eighteen. That’s all there is to him; he’s not particulary attractive or famous with the Capitol. If he wasn’t a mentor, I’m sure no one would remember him at all.

I almost roll my eyes. Admittedly, there is no rule against tributes choosing the mentor. But the Hurons are distant cousins of the Waverlys; the probability of _Eloise_ choosing Osric is slim. Nepotism at its best.

Septima introduces us to our stylists as dinner begins. Aurelia has lavender hair and a cheerful personality to match. I know that Eloise would rather eat her own fingers than wear anything that woman designs. My stylist, Mathias, is much more low key. I can’t spot tattoos or any strange dyes. Only his eyes are striking; smoky gray-blue, like the winter sea.

Mags suggests that we watch the Reapings during dinner. Districts 1 and 2 are predictable; monstrous, well-fed tributes with murder on the brain. When 4 is shown, Mathias breaks the silence.

“Your nephew seemed very attached to you,” he says kindly. “Your family must be close.”

I stare at the screen for a moment, watching Owen run into Erik’s waiting arms. “Yes, we are.”

The commentators hold a discussion after all the Reapings are shown. 1 and 2 are the most popular, as usual. 4 is mentioned very briefly; more attention is paid to Eloise, but I don’t care. They do have a chuckle about my nephew’s antics; they joke that children are so eager to join the Games these days. I scowl at the thought.

“Well, sponsors will be a dream,” Septima says, sipping her fruity cocktail. “ _Much_ easier than last year.”

“Why?” grunts Eloise.

“My dear, the sponsors want strong, powerful tribues. You showed some real _zeal_ when your name was called. And you, Finnick. They’ll love you.”

“How so?” I made people laugh when my name was called, nothing more. I sent my terrified nephew away when my first instinct was to keep him by my side.

I’m fourteen. Fourteen year olds _rarely_ make it past the fifth day, even if we are Careers. Eloise is older; she’s had more training. More experience.

Septima beams, then reaches over to grasp my chin. “You’re a very handsome boy, Finnick. Beauty is the true currency in the Capitol. There’s something so . . . _forbidden_ about the sea, and the sponsors are always tempted by it.”

I flush under her sharp nails. “The Capitol doesn’t know true beauty.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Mathias nod. “Right you are, Finnick. It’s all about creating an illusion.”

———

After we’re dismissed from dinner, I return to my room. There is nothing else to do but sleep; I climb into the huge bed and feel, for the first time in years, small. I’ve almost outgrown my bed back home. I’ve always been a head above everyone else, whether it be in school or in the middle of my extended family.

The anchor is cold against my skin. I wrap it around my finger, watching it dangle. Generations of Odairs have worn this necklace; I almost don’t feel worthy of it.

I wonder if the Gamemakers will return it to District 4 when they collect my body.


	2. Chapter 2

“Finnick, dear! Time to get up!”

Septima is standing over me in the morning, her facial gems shimmering in the sunlight. The entire room sparkles with those rubies; I groan.

The world is a blur beyond my window, the bed is too big, and there is no ocean in sight.

“Oh, come now!” she insists. “Time for breakfast!”

Twenty minutes later, I venture into the dining car. Eloise and Osric are already there, whispering amongst themselves. I decide that I will not be welcome, and content myself with finding something to eat. I stand there for a moment, wondering if seafood will make me feel better or worse.

I choose the Capitol food.

It’s rich and unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. 4 has sugar and chocolate, if you have the money, but there is something radically unique about the Capitol food. Perhaps it’s the unlimited amount, or the privileged access to food at all.

I suddenly don’t feel so hungry anymore.

Mags arrives as I’m clearing my plate. Instinctively, I pull out a chair and wait until she’s seated to do the same.

“Isabel Odair was always one for manners,” she chuckles, watching me settle down. “How is she?”

“She’s . . . upset,” I admit, remembering her crushing hug only a day ago. “She doesn’t think I’ll come home.”

“She does,” Mags corrects me. “She thinks _you_ don’t think you’ll come home.”

I shrug. “I don’t.”

“Therein lies the problem,” she points out. “Confidence is everything.”

“I can’t be confident about my odds.” It’s true. Out of the two of us, Eloise will have more support. I may be strong and capable in the arena, but if the sponsors don’t care about me, I’m as good as dead.

“Forget the odds,” Mags says firmly. “I was thirteen when I was Reaped. The odds were not in my favor, and here I am, fit as a fiddle.”

I grin. “My father uses that expression.”

She smiles back, and it takes twenty years off her. “I used to mind that boy while your grandparents were out looking for the day’s catch. You remind me of him.”

I feel my own smile fall. “I hope I can see him again.”

“Don’t hope, _know_. I know I’ll see him again.”

“I _know_ I’ll see him again,” I say, and for the moment, I allow myself to believe it.

———

I know we are near the Capitol when the train slows to a crawl. I feel myself relax. All this time underground had made me nervous; I didn’t enjoy feeling like I was dead and buried already.

Eloise pretends not to care about the city, but I press my hand to the window, awed. The Capitol is a twisted place, but the sights are unbelievable. It reminds me of a coral reef, full of life. All the city buildings in 4 are white marble; here they are glass, metal, and every color imaginable.

People stop and wave at the train, pointing at me in the window. Reflexively, I wave back, and I’m rewarded with a few blown kisses. The Capitol audience may bloodthirsty, but they are fun to toy with.

———

As it turns out, Mathias has assistants, just like every other stylist. They are my prep team, I’m told. They are there to make me look presentable for the chariot event, the interviews, and so on.

I’m expecting the worst, but they don’t do very much to me at all.

Svein, Halla, and Ursula circle me like a trio of seagulls, squawking at each other like I’m fresh fish. I’m scrubbed all over, which is only mildly embarrassing. We’re pretty lax in District 4; bathing suits are optional. I’ve been naked in the water for most of my life, but I feel anxious surrounded by these odd Capitol predators.

Mathias comes in and observes the last stages of preparation. I can feel my face burn. Though he’s less flamboyant than the three of them, he’s seen me in my most vulnerable state, the night of the Reaping. I decide that it revealed too much about me. I could be seen as a joke to my opponents because of that behavior. It could also mean I’m not taking the Games seriously, driving away potential sponsors.

“There must be something in the water down there,” Ursula says dreamily. “We didn’t have to do much, Mathias.”

I wish I had clothes; I don’t like being scrutinized by these people. Luckily, Svein hands me a robe and the trio departs without another word. I’m left alone with Mathias, who’s examining the sketchpad in his hands.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” he says finally, after he closes the book. “You must be hungry.”

Our lunch is comprised mostly of seafood. I run my fingers along the inside of the oyster shell, knowing that the edible ones do not contain pearls. My mother loves it when I bring them home; she sells jewelry on the side to supplement my father’s fishing.

“Do you keep all of your sketches in there?” I finally ask, nodding toward the book. Mathias looks up and smiles.

“This book is one of many,” he explains. “However, this is for you alone. Would you like to see your costume for the opening ceremonies?”

I can sense he’s trying to befriend me, and I decide to let him. Other than Mags, I have no one. Eloise and Osric are not on my side; it’s important that I choose allies now, even if I’m not in the arena yet.

“I’ve been watching the tapes of past ceremonies for several weeks now,” he begins. “And I noticed that many of my predecessors dress tributes as marine animals.”

I nod to show I’m listening. Now that I think about it, the District 4 tributes have blended together over the last few years. It’s almost a cliché back home, to see an octopus or a killer whale in the City Circle procession.

“However, I think that’s the wrong approach,” Mathias continues, smoothing his hand against the paper. “In my opinion, the animal thing should be reserved for the interview. That’s when you’re trying to prove your ability to the sponsors. The opening ceremonies should be about the grandeur of it all.”

“Makes sense,” I murmur. He nods.

“Thousands of years before Panem, the people believed in deities related to nature—the sky, the sun, the winds. They gave these gods names and worshipped them, often with extreme decadence.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Those people kept a good record of their lives,” he smiles, handing me a framed document. “Here, look at this.”

I examine the aged paper, fascinated. The language is . . . unreadable, but very beautiful. Instead of trying to decipher the words, I let my eyes glide over the painting. It’s one of those gods that he was talking about, wielding a trident in one hand and a wave of water in the other.

“Neptune was their god of the sea,” Mathias says when I’ve finished looking. “And the perfect fit for you.”

I chuckle. “Isn’t that presumptous of me, to ride through the Capitol as a trident-wielding god?”

“Presumptous? Maybe. But the Capitol citizens love a good story, and with what Aurelia and I have planned, you’ll be unforgettable.”

“Eloise won’t like this,” I snicker, thinking of my brutish competitor. Mathias laughs in response.

“Osric will keep her in line. He’s been through the opening ceremonies before. You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

———

I watch District 3 pull away from the stables, blinking in their bizarre machine costumes. I know that 3 makes electronics, but couldn’t the stylists have been more creative than a pair of television remotes? I almost feel bad for them.

To my right, Eloise is scowling. As we predicted, she isn’t happy with the costumes. However, I can’t find a problem with them.

We’re dressed in simple white tunics (or “togas” as Mathias called them) and covered in pearls and gems. I’m wearing a crown of gold, and holding a trident taller than I am. Eloise is dressed similarily, with a smaller trident.

I suppose in those times before Panem, women weren’t considered as valuable as men. But I know better. Eloise could have my head clean off in seconds if we ever meet in the arena. I will not underestimate her.

“District Four!”

The chariot moves automatically. I clutch my trident, then lift my head to smile. Both Mags and Mathias urged me to remember Septima’s words. The Capitol loves beauty; I’ll give them as much as I can.

I can tell that Mathias’s idea is well received. With our crowns and regal clothing, we look powerful. There’s just the right amount of arrogance in our appearance, like we’ve already won. The tributes from 1 and 2 are eyeing us curiously. Not all of Panem has the information that Mathias showed me. Our costumes are unusual to most, but captivating.

I’m glad I was born in 4. There are tributes my age and older who are thin—too thin. My upbringing by the sea has given me an enormous amount of strength, which will work to my advantage. It isn’t about vanity, it’s about survival.

The president steps out onto his balcony, welcoming us to the city. I can see how television can be deceiving—Snow is smaller than I imagined a Capitol citizen to be. It’s strange that the most influencial man in the country looks so feeble.

We’re sent to new chambers in the Training Center, which houses tributes, mentors, and prep teams. Ursula and Halla are instructed to help me out of my costume; it does take some effort to unwrap. While that’s going on, they gush over my big splash in the city.

“ _Everyone_ wanted to know your name,” Halla sighs as she removes the crown. “I mean, they should know by now, with the Reaping and all.”

“What were they saying about Eloise?”

“Someone said she looked more like a boulder than a sea goddess,” Ursula laughs, and I suddenly feel bad. All this pomp and ceremony must seem useless to Eloise. She’s been trained for the blood and gore of the Games.

I mentally scold myself. I’m not here to have fun. I’m here to win.

 _Odairs are not afraid._

We all eat dinner with Eloise, Osric, and her prep team. The tension in the room is palpable; both sides stare at each other throughout the meal. After we eat, Osric leads Eloise and their prep team away to another sitting room.

I scoff. “It’s just the opening ceremonies. It’s not battle strategy yet.”

“It is, Finnick,” Mags says absently, studying each District pair. “Every move is considered beforehand. If you knew her personally in Four, it’s time to forget that. She’s an enemy now.”

Tomorrow is the day we’ll figure out my plan, she explains. I’m expected in the Training Center by midmorning. It’s vital I learn every skill I can. Being from the oceanic district could put me at a disadvantage; if the arena is sparse and dry, I’ll never make it. I need to learn hunting, gathering, and other methods of survival.

When I’m sent back to my room, I shower, change, and try to picture my family. They would have seen my exciting entrance to the Capitol tonight on television. No doubt there will be some division in 4; who should the people root for, me or Eloise?

While I lie in bed, restless and worried, I try to picture my deadlier opponents. The other Careers, obviously. Eloise, most definitely. 6, maybe. 10 had some potential.

Instead of counting sheep (which I’ve never seen), I rattle off the names of my family. Felix, Isabel, Lucia, Phoebe, Emilia, Owen, Erik . . .

I’m asleep before I reach the end.


	3. Chapter 3

Mags is waiting for me at breakfast. For the next three days, me and my fellow tributes will be training together, learning new skills and perfecting old ones. Just as before, Osric and Eloise avoid us.

I eat quickly, knowing our discussion is critical to my strategy. Mags waits until I’m finished to ask about the skills and training I’m proficient in.

“Spears and tridents should be easy,” I say thoughtfully. “My father trained me with knives and hand-to-hand combat. Nets and knots are no problem, either.”

“Avoid those stations if you can,” she advises, which surprises me. “No need to let the other tributes know what your skills are. Go for the shelter, fire starting, and plant areas. If the arena is a forest, you’ll be a fish out of water.”

I stand up to leave, but she stops me. “One last thing, Finnick. 4 is traditionally a Career district.”

“Do you want me to ally with them?” I ask, trying to remember their names. I’ll have to worry about that later.

“Let them _think_ you are,” Mags says. “Eloise will definitely be a part of that pack. Your job is to join them until the Bloodbath begins.”

I understand. Eloise is the more threatening of us two, based on what the others have seen. I’ll be included because I’m also a Career. However, I know that Eloise will stab me in the back at her first opportunity. We are not friends. We are not allies.

 _Odairs are not afraid._

———

As per Mags’s instructions, I avoid the weaponry and traps for now, however tempting they are. I’m competent in both categories; my priority is to learn other things, like plant life.

The trainer at the edible plants station is very attentive; I’m the first tribute to visit him today. I can tell that the other Careers will ignore this area completely—the Cornocupia is almost always stocked with food. They’ll hoard all of it from the rest of us in the arena. If there aren’t any fish for me to catch, plants will be my only option, other than land animals. Hopefully I can capture _those_ in my nets, if I find the right material to construct them.

After edible plants, I move onto climbing. This one is no trouble at all. The trainer is pleased when I explain my skill—in my district, the masts of our boats are the trees. Children are often sent to the crow’s nest because of their size and speed.

I choose the hunting area next, knowing that I’ll have to eat something other than plants or fish. This station involves skinning and cleaning the animal. After I decide it’s not much different from gutting the day’s catch, it’s easier.

When the third hour is up, everyone breaks for lunch.

I sit with Eloise and the other Career tributes. They’ve invited the girl from 5 and the boy from 10, both of whom decline. For the moment, it’s just the six of us. Sapphire and Brandon are District 1; Caterina and Aleksandar are District 2. All seem eager for the Games to begin, and dismiss the rest of the tributes as easy prey.

It’s not difficult to charm them into accepting me. Eloise is a guaranteed in already; her spear throwing made a lasting impression. Though I haven’t proved myself in training yet, I hint about special coaching back home—something everyone at this table understands.

Mags approves when I reveal that I’m in the pack. More importantly, I tell her all about their strategy, although it’s not difficult to work out. They’ll kill as many tributes as possible in the Bloodbath, gather the weapons, horde the food, and hunt after nightfall. When the tension becomes too great, they turn on each other—but no one mentions that, of course.

“—oh, and I built shelters after lunch.”

“Good,” she nods. “Tomorrow you should camouflage and build fires.”

I grimace but follow her orders. We both agree that I can show the Careers my real skills on the last day of training—that’s how they’ll know I’m worth an alliance. If any questions arise, I can say that I’m more than capable in the deadlier stations, and didn’t want to waste time and effort on them.

The next day, I make a pretty good fire; the trainer is pleased. He explains that I should only build fires at certain times of day, but doesn’t elaborate. I understand. There’s only so much he can tell me; the rest is on my shoulders.

Camouflage is an interesting experience, but after lunch, I’m itching to throw something. I head to the spears station and work with Sapphire from 1. I’m better at it; I can tell she’s realizing my use as an ally.

Finally, the third day arrives. Today is the private sessions with the Gamemakers. I’ll receive a score based on my performance, which will be whatever I choose to do. My only worry is that Eloise will do something similar, being from the same district. Lucky for me, the male tribute performs first. Even if Eloise was to do the same thing, I will have already done it. She could be seen as copying me.

I know I should be nervous. A lot of my appeal to sponsors will be based on this score. But I’m not nervous, I’m excited. After three days of ignoring the tridents, I finally get to touch one, let alone wield it.

The Gamemakers have set up a row of dummies for target practice. With the touch of a button, they walk like real people, to simulate moving targets. I cut down a net from the traps station, find a suitable trident, and go to work.

Using my left hand, I throw the net and watch as it covers three of the dummies. Without breaking a sweat, I throw the trident through the air. It takes the middle head clean off. When I pick up the trident again, I stab the remaining two dummies until I’ve made my point.

Several of the Gamemakers are nodding in approval. I’m happy 4 is so high on their list—they haven’t been exhausted by twenty-something other tributes yet.

Instead of doing the net trick again, I grab a number of tridents and launch them at other objects around the room. The archery targets fall one by one under my throws; I skew yet another dummy through the stomach. When I’ve used up all the tridents, the Gamemakers dismiss me and I’m free to go.

I meet Mags in my room. She’s been weaving; for what, I’m not sure. She waits until I’ve showered and changed to ask about the training sessions.

“Tridents,” I say happily.

She beams. “Excellent, Finnick. Excellent work.”

———

Apparently the Gamemakers thought I was excellent too, because they give me a ten. A _ten_. I can’t remember the last tribute from 4 who got a ten, even if we are a Career district. Mathias and the prep team, who dine with us for the viewing, congratulate me. Though no one mentions her, we’re all thinking about Eloise, who managed to scrape an eight.

The next two days are devoted to a different kind of training. I’m going to be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman, and all of Panem will see me on the air. I need to be memorable. Charming. The sponsors are betting on certain tributes to win; it’s my job to convince them to bet on me.

Mathias and his team set to work on my appearance. I’m primped and prodded again, but from what Ursula and Svein are saying, I’m almost perfect. I snort at this comment; Mathias laughs.

“What should I do, Svein? Tattoo my skin blue?”

He pauses, holding a chunk of my hair between his fingers. He had been gelling it to stick up, but my question threw him off his task. “You could. Although gold might suit you better, with your coloring.”

“That was a joke, Svein.”

“Oh.”

“What _are_ you dressing me as?” I finally demand, when the garment bag is brought in. My prep team titters amongst themselves, waiting for my reaction.

“Remember what I said about sea creatures?” Mathias grins, bringing his sketchbook over. “Look at this.”

“A shark,” I say, astonished. “I’m going to be a _shark_ for my interview?”

Septima bounces into the room, brandishing a clipboard. “Not many people in Panem know what a shark is, Finnick. Caesar will ask you to elaborate, which leaves room for you to be charming.”

I tilt my head back and let Svein finish my hair, thinking. “I’ve been charming my way out of trouble since I was three.”

“Show me,” Septima commands. “Let’s practice. ‘So, Finnick, tell the audience here about sharks.”

“Sharks are marine animals that we avoid in Four,” I explain. Mathias and the prep team step back, observing.

“Why is that?”

I flash her a sly smile; my voice is low. “They have an _insatiable_ appetite.”

Halla fans her face. “He doesn’t need coaching, Septima. We might as well be in his bedroom, if he keeps talking like that.”

My face reddens and I lean back, letting them go to work on me again. I had bullshitted that line, but apparently it was taken well. Hmm. Well, that’s another lesson learned. I hope Caesar’s questions are as open-ended as that one.

———

Mathias sits with the other stylists in the front row for the interview. When it’s my turn, he gives me a reassuring thumbs-up. I smile back uncertainly, trying to stamp out all the nerves. _Odairs are not afraid_ , I repeat silently to myself.

“Mr. Odair,” Caesar Flickerman greets me, as our hands meet. This year, his eyelids, lips, and hair are yellow, like the sun. “Well, aren’t you a _delight_.”

He lifts my arm to the audience, who gasp and cheer. I give Panem my sweetest smile.

My costume is simple, but just as memorable as the City Circle outfit. Mathias put me in a pair of black pants, with a gray vest that _barely_ counts as clothing. On my wrists, I have a pair of sharp cuffs, cut and shaped like fins. I’m wearing a spiked, gray crown. District 4 will make the connection to a shark, but as we predicted, the rest of Panem doesn’t.

Caesar bids me to explain, so I do. “It’s a huge, threatening animal. Swimmers beware, sharks can smell blood a quarter of a mile away. And the _teeth_. It’s deadly. The bites can kill men.”

Caesar winks. “Do you bite the girls at home, Finnick?”

This is the oppportunity I’ve been waiting for.

I smirk. “Only if they ask.”

The crowd goes berserk, stomping their feet and whistling. I glance at them lazily, blowing a kiss here and there, inciting more pandemonium.

“Tell us about your nephew, Finnick,” Caesar suggests, when there’s a lull. “That child was most reluctant to let you go.”

I force out another grin. “Oh, yes. Owen’s always been a willful boy. When he was two years old, he wandered right off our dock, trying to see the fish. I had to jump in and save him.”

“He’s lucky you were there,” Caesar chuckles, one eye on the timer. The buzzer sounds, and my interview is over. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Odair.”

I take his hand for one last shake, staring into his eyes. They’re a surprisingly normal brown. My voice is a purr. “Thank _you_ , Mr. Flickerman.”

As I saunter off the stage, I can hear the crowd whistling again. On the other screens, _the_ Caesar Flickerman looks stunned. I wonder if I’m the first tribute to shock him by flirting.

The other tributes fly by; only a few stand out. When we go back to the Training Center for dinner, Eloise and her team join us.

I share a glance with Mathias across the table. Earlier, Aurelia had wrestled Eloise into a swordfish costume. Though it makes her look fearsome covered in all those fake weapons, the interview isn’t that remarkable. Caesar, who usually can make any tribute look interesting, couldn’t draw more than ten words from her in three minutes.

My interview is better. Septima says I’m “suave.” Osric looks furious. I eat my dinner smugly, confident in my performance. The Capitol fed into my artificial persona; hopefully the sponsors did as well.

As I climb into bed later that night, I realize it’s my last sleep before the Games begin. Tomorrow, I’ll be dropped into a hostile environment to fight twenty-three other tributes. It could be a desert, a freezing tundra, even a swamp. The Gamemakers have to entertain the Capitol; any number of dangers could be waiting.

In the morning, Mathias is there to wake me. We go to the roof so I can get my tracker placed. The initial discomfort runs deep; I don’t like knowing that the Gamemakers can trace my every move. Even if I hide in the arena, I can still be found.

After we eat breakfast, a hovercraft arrives to take us to the arena. I press my hand to the glass, watching the city disappear behind the mountains. We fly over leagues of unsettled land before the windows black out. The Capitol doesn’t want us to see the arena before we enter it; that could give us an advantage. My stomach drops in response.

Mathias has my clothes ready when I step out of the shower. We examine them for a moment, looking for clues. Both the shirt and pants are long, but the material is light enough to move around in. The belt and the raincoat are also very thin. The boots lace up to the knees and have hard, thick soles.

I can’t imagine what kind of climate would allow all these things to be functional, but I put them on without protest.

“I’d keep the token under your shirt,” Mathias says, adjusting the necklace for me. “It might attract unwanted attention.”

For the next hour, we say very little. I’m anxious and can’t sit still. He finds a glass of water; it calms me, for a moment. “Eloise will be out for my blood.”

“Then you have to get to her first,” Mathias says grimly. “I’m sure they’ll hunt you, since you’re abandoning the pack at the Bloodbath.”

I laugh, trying to keep the darker thoughts at bay. “Aleksandar seems the most deadly of the bunch.”

District 2 is where they train Peacekeepers. Those tributes have been raised on tales of glory won in the Hunger Games; if they consider me a threat, I’ll be their first priority.

How flattering. I’ll be the one they want to kill the most.

When a female voice announces it’s time for launch, the two of us walk over to metal plate. There’s just enough room for me; a recent growth spurt has left me with lanky limbs. I feel my hands shaking; I curl them into fists at my sides, standing tall. _Odairs are not cowards_ , I repeat.

“If I don’t see you again,” I begin, but the glass cylinder lowers from the ceiling, locking me in. Mathias smiles at the would-be sentiment, and gives me a familiar thumbs-up. The plate begins to rise from the Launch Room, shrouding me in darkness. My heart pounds; I feel like a fish caught in a net. Then without warning, I see the sky.

Momentarily blinded by the bright light, I use my other senses. The air is thick and humid; sweat pools at the back of my neck. Far off in the distance, I hear the cries of strange birds and cats. A breeze sends pleasant scents my way.

Then the voice of Claudius Templesmith, the famous announcer of the Games, roars around me like a crashing wave on the shore.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games begin!”


	4. Chapter 4

I have one minute.

One minute to take in all of my surroundings. One minute to create a plan and execute it.

The gong will sound and my first priority is to get to the Cornucopia and find supplies. I can wield weapons; I can fight. The Careers will leave me be because they think I’m on their side.

My only problem is _time_. I need enough of it to grab what I need and escape. If the pack realizes that I’m skipping out, my chances of getting to safety are slim.

The seconds tick by. I take the time to examine the arena, committing it to memory.

All twenty-four tributes are standing on the edge of a cliff. In front of us is a large desert environment, with foothills of sand. The Cornucopia sits the edge of—well, I’m not sure what to call it. The word _oasis_ is the most likely, but even that doesn’t seem right. I finally decide to christen it a _rainforest_. It’s bigger than it looks; I see a mountain in the distance, along with a silver ribbon snaking through the trees.

That has to be a river. I smile. _Water_.

The gong rings out; I don’t think. I throw all of my energy into running. Running and breathing. No more, no less.

The other tributes are stumbling through the sand, unused to the texture. I have no trouble with it; I learned how to walk on a beach. Twenty feet to my right, Eloise is in the same situation. She catches my eye and I nod. There. For now, we’re still on the same page.

The Cornucopia is littered with backpacks, weapons, and other useful supplies. I snatch up a backpack, throw it on my shoulders, and pick up another. In my left hand, I grab two knives. The pounding of feet informs me that my time to linger is gone. This is it. From this moment forward, I’m on my own.

An axe goes whizzing past my head, embedding itself into the golden rim of the Cornucopia. I don’t need to look back; that axe was thrown by someone from 7. Those tributes have been wielding axes and saws since birth. Since they were so kind to throw it at me, I take the opportunity to steal it. With my loot in hand, I make a mad dash for the tree line.

I hear the screams begin, along with the sharp song of metal through the air. There’s another sound—the sickening thud of a blade cutting through flesh.

The Bloodbath has begun, and my alliance with the Careers is now over. Soon there will be other tributes fleeing this way; armed or not, I’m going to avoid them.

As I stumble through the forest, I realize that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I can’t possibly hold all of these weapons _and_ an extra backpack. Reluctantly, I leave the axe in the cavernous roots of a tree and move on, clipping the knives to my belt. Now I have one free hand, while the other is clenched tight around the backpack.

I’m eternally grateful that Mags made me try out the other training stations. I can only imagine what the Careers are thinking of this arena; it’s unlike any district in Panem. Even I’m out of my element; winning this will be a challenge, as it should be.

The first thing I notice about this place are the colors. Nearly everything is green and leafy, especially the uppermost canopy. I’m thankful for that; not only does it block out the sun, it tells me that true to its name, there will be rain. At the base of the trees, other colors emerge. Tropical flowers in pinks, blues, and yellows bloom in splotches along the path.

I keep a quick pace for the next few hours, occasionally looking over my shoulder. The battle at the Cornucopia will keep my adversaries out of the rainforest for the time being. I glance down, worried about trails. There is a lot of mud on the forest floor; tracking me will be a breeze. I change my running technique, dragging my feet every now and then.

I hope the sponsors can see me now. I’ve deceived the Careers and managed to take a number of supplies and weapons from them. Instead of staying for a fight, I’ve sought higher ground. I’m not being cowardly, I’m being smart. They don’t know _how_ I got that ten; I have a lot to prove.

Warily, I find a low-lying branch to sit on and take off my backpack. I managed to snag two of them; any number of useful things could be inside.

The first backpack has a long length of twine, an empty water bottle, climbing spikes, and a wad of gauze. The second backpack includes a sleeping bag, a bottle of iodine, small flintstones, and a tiny, wispy net.

I’m about to grin at my good fortune when a small clicking noise makes me stop. To my left, a spider the size of my fist is creeping up the branch, pinchers snapping. The last thing I need right now is _that_ making a meal out of me. Slowly, I grab the straps of both backpacks and inch away from the area, so not to startle it. The spider— _tarantula_ , I think—scuttles down the branch to where I was sitting, searching for me.

That’s another thing I miscalculated—rainforest wildlife. That spider is the first of many animals I’ll encounter, not to mention any muttations the Gamemakers will throw my way.

The next time I stop, I make sure to double check the area before I sit down. I won’t make that mistake again. This place will be full of deadly things like that spider. I’d rather die at the hands of the Careers than be a meal for one of those creatures.

For economic reasons, I decide to combine both of my backpacks into one. It’s silly to carry around a pair of them, when my survival will depend on speed and agility. It takes some doing, but all my supplies, save for the two knives at my belt, fit inside. When I’m just about finished, the cannons begin to fire.

I pause, and keep count. One, two, three . . . it ends with nine. Nine cannons. That means nine tributes are dead. Fifteen tributes are still alive. The Bloodbath is over. The Gamemakers don’t bother to fire the cannons during the battle, it’s too difficult to keep track of the living and the dead.

I glance toward the sky. I won’t know which tributes are dead until nightfall. Sunlight filters through the trees only in certain spots; from what I can see, it’s late afternoon. After sunset, the Careers will come hunting, combing the forest for other tributes. I need to find a safe place to sleep.

I look down at my supplies again. The climbing spikes are now the most valuable items in my arsenal. Though it could place me near dangerous creatures in the canopy, there are far worse dangers coming this way—tributes armed with knives, spears, and swords.

The trees here are thinner than the practice ones in the Training Center, but I manage. As I climb, the view of the foliage starts to change. The leaves are thicker, but they will be useful for catching rainwater. To my surprise, I recognize a number of edible plants—once again, I’m grateful for my mentor’s instructions. I haven’t had food or water since this morning, and it’s already had an enormous effect on me. If I don’t succumb to venomous beasts or Careers, dehydration will do the trick.

Once I’ve found a pair of sturdy branches, I pull out the roll of twine. In no time, I’ve weaved a hammock. Combined with my sleeping bag, I’ve created a comfortable and safe place to sleep.

Still, I’m wary. I keep both knives within grabbing distance; I figure that should something slither toward me, I’ll be ready to fight back. After my pack is securely fastened to a nearby branch, I examine the plantlife around me. Finally, I spot a grouping of leaves close enough to my camp.

I remember this plant from the station; the trainer insisted it was safe. Still, I munch on it slowly. When nothing bad happens, I have a few more bites. It does little to sate the real hunger in me, but I’d rather eat something than nothing. There’s a reason they call it the Hunger Games.

Night falls; I weave a few bowls to catch rainwater while I wait for the anthem to begin. Again, I hope the Capitol has the cameras on me. For the first day, I’ve done pretty well. Tomorrow will bring fresh peril, that much is clear. However, I managed to set up camp, avoid a lethal tarantula, and evade the Careers without so much as a scratch on me.

The music starts and I peer through the top canopy, trying to see. The boy from 3 is the first death. Well, I now know that all the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 made it, if there was ever any doubt about that. That means the girl from 3 is also alive.

The next face I see is a complete shock.

It’s Eloise.


	5. Chapter 5

Eloise is dead.

I don’t know how to react to this information. Should I be pleased? Angry? Relieved? One of my biggest competitors has been eliminated. It’s one less person I’ll have to kill.

I’m sure the cameras are on me now, trying to analyze my reaction. I’ve lost my district partner on the first day. Though it’s clear to me that we were never allies, Eloise and I are Careers. What happened between my escape and her murder? Did the pack kill her, or was it another tribute?

The Waverlys are probably in shock right now. It’s obvious that she was favored to win, being older, bigger, and more experienced. I can imagine Osric in the control room, stunned at this development. With his tribute dead, he probably won’t stay in the Capitol, even if it means leaving Mags to do all the legwork.

I keep my expression impassive and lift my head, watching the rest of the death recap. After Eloise, it’s both tributes from 5, the boy from 6, the boy from 8, the girl from 9, and both tributes from 12.

Nine dead. Fifteen tributes left in play.

I cover my face with the hood of the raincoat, thinking. I’m too high up for the Careers to find me; I should be safe for the night. Tomorrow I’ll have to find food. The small net will be excellent for fishing. I can deconstruct my hammock to make a trap; there must be animals that aren’t reptilian in this arena. I didn’t learn animal skinning for kicks.

———

Cannon fire greets me in the morning. I wake with a start, clutching my knife. My hammock sways back and forth, creaking. When I realize it’s safe, I relax and return the knife to my belt.

They must have been hunting all night. I wonder if I missed more cannons while I was sleeping; I’ll have to wait until this evening to find out.

My clothes and the camp are soaking wet; it must have rained during the night. To my delight, the baskets I wove have collected water. I guide it into the empty bottle and drink, suddenly thirsty. It’s rainwater, so I know it doesn’t require the iodine.

I allow myself a few minutes to drink and break up camp. My raincoat did its job last night; I take it off and decide to carry it, knowing it will dry very fast in this heat. As I climb down the tree, I stay alert. The last thing I need is a knife in my back as I clamor down to the forest floor.

I wonder what my family is feeling at this moment. I’ve survived the first day; I’m armed and hydrated, for the moment. My father will be proud. He told me to run if there was no other option; I did, and here I am. His training saved my life.

Production during the Games always goes down in every district, but the Capitol wants everyone to watch, so there’s no backlash. Many fisherman in 4 will go out and get the day’s catch, then tune in to the Games after lunch.

Lunch. Owen and my cousins will be in school right now, regardless of the Games. As they eat, the children are allowed to watch it live, or catch the updates, if nothing interesting is happening. I think of them and feel stronger, knowing that District 4 is counting on me now. Eloise is dead; I’m the only tribute left.

I drag the net along the forest floor, hoping to catch something small. My stomach is growling so loud that I think that if the net doesn’t bring the Careers running, my hunger will.

The hike to the river is long, but I manage to catch a field mouse. I won’t cook it just yet; I want to see what I can catch in the water. Along the way, I see a number of exotic birds and flowers. I’m suspicious and won’t venture near them, but the colors are pleasing to look at. The mouse squeaks so loud at the sight of them that I’m forced to break its neck to stop the noise.

At last, I hear the rush of water. I smile, imagining how it will feel on my overheated skin. One thing stops me, though. Several years ago, a tribute from 9, badly burned, jumped into a lake without looking. To his misfortune, the poor boy was dragged to the bottom by muttations.

I’m not going to die on the _second_ day by making that stupid mistake.

I hike down to the shore, scanning at the water with a practiced eye. It’s cloudy; anything could be lurking underneath the surface. I don’t want to lose my net on a gamble. I’m going to test it.

Shrugging, I toss the mouse into the air. In seconds, a cluster of fish jump out of the water to snatch it, teeth snapping. The bones crack, blood spurts, and the mouse’s body is devoured and dragged below.

 _That could have been my hand_ , I think. I recognize the species. Piranhas. Though they aren’t native to 4, we learn the names, physical characteristics, and behavior of all the known fish in the ocean.

I’m not the only one who needs nourishment. Other tributes might come this way, armed with iodine and the hope of finding something to sate their thirst. The humidity in this arena is overwhelming. Water is the top priority.

My father is a fisherman. Before these Games, I was a fisherman. I’ve been trained to wait for unsuspecting prey. This is the strategy I choose. Patience. Unusual for a Career, but sometimes we’re forced to change our ways.

The long trees at the mouth of the river are an excellent place to hide. I find a safe place to sit and take out the longer knife. All I can do now is wait.

An hour passes until I’m rewarded with the sound of approaching footsteps. I press my back against the trees, watching.

It’s the girl from 7. She’s carrying an axe. I wonder if she’s the tribute who threw one at me yesterday. She stumbles to the edge, then searches through her bag for a water container and the iodine.

I realize I only have _seconds_ to kill her. If she realizes the water’s dangers before I’m ready, it will be an opportunity missed. Or, if things get really ugly, I could be getting an axe between the eyes and kissing life goodbye.

Gripping my knife, I keep my gait slow and steady. I can hear her panting; she must be very desperate to come so far into the open for water.

The hard soles of my boots aren’t built for clamoring over rocks. One of them kicks out from under my foot and I freeze. In the blink of an eye, the girl grabs her axe.

I don’t think, I throw.

Her axe misses me by inches, but my aim is true. The knife enters her throat and lodges itself there. Gasping, her hands clutch the hilt, trying to stop the inevitable. As she stands, her ankle twists on a rock and she tumbles into the water.

Drawn in by the fresh meat, the piranhas attack in a feeding frenzy. The water bubbles red, frothing, as she tries to staunch the blood flow, fight off the fish, and breathe. She fails. After a minute of this, her body stops thrashing and the cannon fires.

Just like that, her life is over. The shredded remains of my first kill drift down the river, pulled along by the current and the cloud of hungry fish. The hovercraft will be arriving soon to take her body away; I don’t want to be here when it does.

I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I’m searching through her backpack. Why? Why do I suddenly feel sick? I’ve captured hundreds of fish, killing them for food or money. I’ve speared practice dummies in the place of real people. There is no room in the Hunger Games for mercy. She is an enemy— _was_ an enemy, I should say.

Her backpack doesn’t have much; I take only a knife to replace the one I lost. Her axe I throw into the river, so other tributes can’t use it against me.

I need to evacuate the area, and I need to do it now. My ears prick; I can hear the sound of running feet. Someone’s coming. Only one kind of tribute would run toward cannon fire. A kind I’m not in any hurry to meet.

The climbing spikes are in my hands in seconds. I run to the nearest tree and begin to climb. Adrenaline propels me upward; adrenaline and desperation. To my relief, I’m hidden before the first voice breaks through the clearing.

“I heard it from over here!”

I suppress a groan. The Career pack _would_ show up to the scene of my first kill. Silently, I thank the Gamemakers for putting climbing spikes in this backpack. Without them, I’d be a sitting duck.

Aleksander is the first to appear, his sword drawn. Brandon follows, along with Sapphire and Caterina. Everyone is armed to the teeth.

They examine the blood at the water’s edge, looking for tracks. I observe the scene warily; did I leave a trail in my haste to escape?

It doesn’t appear so. They wonder aloud who the tribute was, and rifle through her backpack. Nothing good. I wonder how the distribution of supplies went at the Cornucopia. For a moment, I hope one of them tries to get water. The piranhas will still be hungry. However, they trudge back into the trees without another word.

———

It’s been a whole day since I’ve eaten something. I don’t dare fish at that part of the river, so I venture back into the rainforest to make camp. The ground starts to slope upward; I remember seeing a mountain yesterday, before the gong went off. There will be more game here, I hope. I use the twine to make a few traps, and wait.

If the Careers really did kill someone this morning, then combined with my kill, there are thirteen of us left.

I pause. Eleven tributes dead. Thirteen left to play. It’s only the second day and almost half of us have been eliminated. The Capitol must be pleased. A bloody Games is always more entertaining.

Several hours pass and my traps remain empty. Frustrated, I cut down the snares and begin to weave a new hammock. When that’s done, I tilt my head back and stare at the sky. The trees are more sparse at the base of the mountain; no doubt I hold a number of Capitol cameras at this moment.

“Mags,” I frown. “Any chance I can get some food?”

I lean back in my hammock, waiting. My mentor, true to form, doesn’t fail me. In a matter of minutes, I spot the parachute. It lands next to my foot; I’m so ravenous that I tangle myself up in my own hammock.

Inside the basket is a literal feast. There’s a small roasted bird, fresh rolls from District 4, a piece of cheese, and a cup of soup. I give the sky a grateful thumbs-up and dig in.

I know I should save some of that bird for later, but I haven’t eaten anything but plants since arriving in the arena. I devour it in minutes, then two rolls from 4 and a bite of the cheese. The soup cup has a cap; I twist it closed and know it will hold, at least until tomorrow. I wrap what’s left of the cheese and rolls in the silk parachute, then put it in the net. Now the leftovers can keep overnight and be protected from insects.

Full and relaxed, I sip the last of my water. I expect another rainstorm within a day, if not this very evening. For safety, I weave more bowls and lean back in my sleeping bag.

However, I find that I can’t suppress my feelings any longer. They’ve been lingering on the edge of my mind, waiting for a window. And here it is. The girl from 7 dies again before my eyes. Her skeleton drifts down the river, grinning.

I zip my sleeping bag up to my chin to stop the shaking. Though my father taught me how to kill, I can’t remember a lesson on how to deal with it. Perhaps Careers aren’t supposed to care. But to my dismay, I find that I do care.

 _A weakness of mine_ , I admit silently. _Caring too much_. Are Careers not allowed to have hearts?

I doze off, awakened only by the anthem.The first face is the girl from 11. That must have been the kill that woke me up this morning.

The District 7 girl is the next to appear. I stare at her picture through the trees for a moment, then drop my gaze. I can’t look. _Odairs are not cowards_ , I want to tell myself, but right now, I’m going to act like one.

The music sounds and the arena is quiet. Two kills today. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will grant us a restful evening.

Eleven dead. Thirteen left to play.

I suddenly feel trapped, as if I’m finally used to being in the arena. It’s an uncomfortable feeling.

With the sleeping bag unzipped, and my raincoat balled up as a pillow, I relax. It’s still hot; I unbutton the shirt, letting cool air touch my skin.

In my dreams, the piranhas rip me to shreds; the bleeding girl from 7 chops off my head. The Careers are laughing at my fate. They tear the anchor from my headless body, and I wither, a fish without oxygen.

I don’t sleep well that night.


	6. Chapter 6

_Sssssss_.

I’m home in 4.

That sound is the sea spraying us as we ride out a wave. Emilia is trying to keep her hair intact—we’re laughing because she can’t. The water is hot. Boiling, even. Owen’s smile fades.

 _Sssssss_.

The air is thick, like soup. The humidity is high, which is also unusual. I frown. I can’t remember the last time 4 had a wet, sticky summer. The ocean turns green; vines break the rudder clean off.

 _Sssssss_.

At last, I’m forced to admit that it’s not a sound I’m familiar with. My heart sinks. Something is wrong.

I open my eyes, momentarily confused. The sun is high; I’ve slept in late. There’s a coil of rope near my feet. Though instead of the ocean, I see leaves. I’m not in my father’s boat, either.

Then I realize—I’m in the arena, not District 4. I’m suspended twenty-five feet in the air, netted like a fish, and that isn’t rope coiled at my feet, it’s a snake.

The hissing starts again and I finally look at the creature straight on. The snake is rearing up three feet from my face, fangs bared. I can feel the smooth, slimy body against my stomach, scaled and reptilian.

I have no idea how long it's been in my hammock. My family back home no doubt has been watching it slither up the tree into my camp, helpless and unable to warn me. I study it, unreacting, as its pink tongue flicks out into the air, tasting it. Tasting the scent of me.

My first instinct is to strangle it, but I don’t have those kind of reflexes.

My knife is clipped to my belt. I let my fingers inch toward it, not breaking eye contact. I’m sure there’s a rule somewhere that says _not_ to look offensive animals in the eye, but I’m afraid that if I look away for a moment, it will strike.

The sound of the knife unlatching from the belt is as loud as gunfire. The snake tilts its head toward the noise, graceful and terrifying. My arm draws back slowly—rearing back to slash through the air. I move at a snail’s pace, preparing myself. It’s now or never.

Then, at the worst possible moment, the sun glints off the surface of the blade. The snake moves so fast that it blurs. I never had a chance.

My shoulder is on fire; I can feel the sharp teeth slicing through layers of skin and muscle. I cry out, uncaring of any intruders, and bring my knife down, stabbing and cutting at it, again and again, driving the blade all the way though its body—I hear its death rattle and know I’ve killed it, but its killed me, I can’t feel the right side of my body, my vision is blurry and I think I’m dying, a fish out of water, no oxygen—

The snake’s heavy body falls off my hammock—I can hear it crashing through the undergrowth, where it will be a feast for the other creatures, and me, I’m next, I can’t see a thing. The venom will surge through me with every heartbeat, driving the poison into my nervous system and shutting my body down for good. I know the Capitol must have some kind of antidote— _Mags!_ —she can help, I need her. She must see me now. I need her to hear me.

I’m thrashing and I try to speak, but the words come out garbled. “Mawgsh!”

No response. My mouth makes a shrill, keening noise. I’m afraid, so afraid, that I’m going to die. I’m supposed to die near the ocean. Not here.

 _“Mawgsh!”_

I don’t know if she’s abandoned me but I feel terribly alone. My family must be watching now; I wish it hadn’t been this way. Panting, I try to say a name, any of them, but my tongue won’t work.

I’m almost ready to give up when I see a strange bird. It’s pure white, with smooth wings. It almost looks like a jellyfish, white and silver . . .

It’s agony to lie there and let it float down to me, but I do. I fight to stay awake, my will renewed, knowing that it’s not a jellyfish, it’s a parachute. Mags is really there, she’s sending help. The world shimmers; I concentrate on the parachute, forcing myself to hold on.

At last, when I can reach out and touch it, I smile. My prep team is probably wincing at this very moment, watching me swell up and sweat. I push that silly thought away and peer at the label.

 _DRINK ME_ is written in a scribbed, desperate hand. The vial is small; it’s meant to be administered in one gulp. With trembling hands, I twist the cap off and take a swig, feeling it burn all the way down.

At first, the pain is worse. The raincoat is the first thing I can reach—I stuff it in my mouth, drowning out the screams. It’s only been minutes since the attack, but at any time, the Careers, a muttation, or another dangerous animal could drop in on me. After what seems like hours, the burning recedes, leaving me limp and exhausted.

I can’t stay in this tree, though. I’ve already endangered myself by staying in one place for too long. If I can find a suitable camping spot away from this area, I’ll allow my body a rest.

Packing up and climbing down the tree is a new kind of torture. I’m sweating and shivering from the medicine; even the sun can’t warm me. I won’t give up, though. That antivenom had to be very expensive. The sponsors will be looking for me to be strong again. I know there has to be a handful of them—who else would provide me with food, and a lifeline?

The snake’s body is belly-up at the foot of the tree. I scowl at it, wince at the slight pain in my shoulder, and gut it from neck to tail.

There. Now I’ve had my revenge, however small.

My first few steps are shaky. Momentarily dazed, I watch the ground rush up to meet me. It would be heaven to stay in this position. But I know I can’t. Groaning, I force my arms upward, away from the dirt, and make myself stand.

The fancy Capitol medicine prevented the venom from killing me, but it didn’t stop the soreness of the bite. It will be a few days before it heals up completely, if I’m still alive by that time. I fashion a sling out of my raincoat, then depart the campsite. For safety, I carry a knife in my left hand. It’s irritating that the snake bit my right side; that hand is more accurate.

Still, I know I’m lucky to be alive. It was stupid of me to sleep that way, with half my clothes torn off. It was practically inviting predators into my bed, a lure of easy prey. Another mistake that I won’t make again.

The sun tells me that it’s almost midday. I won’t be able to do much fighting until tomorrow, when I’m better rested.

As I walk, I mentally kick myself for drinking all the water last night. Now I’m reconsidering the idea of breaking up camp. I’m stumbling through the forest, freshly bitten and in desperate need of water.

 _Sponsors_ , I think. Yesterday, Mags sent me a dinner enough for two. Surely I can get water from the sponsors, if I’m in real need of it. I just need a new place to camp. With that mantra in mind, I try harder, fighting the dizziness. It takes time, but my steps even out.

If climbing down the tree was hard, then climbing _up_ one in my condition is nearly impossible. Somehow, _somehow_ , I manage to claw my way up, arms trembling. Septima said I was a handsome boy; do I look handsome now, half dead and sweating, struggling to find safety?

When my hammock is constructed and the baskets are built, I begin to unpack. I find the net, studying it closely, reminded of something. After a few seconds, I wish another snake would come and bite me for my stupidity. It’s not a fishing net, it’s a _mosquito_ net.

Here I am, thanking my invisible sponsors for saving my life when _I_ could have done that for the past two nights, simply by hanging up a small net above my head while I sleep. Are they laughing at me in the Capitol? I don’t know if I can bear this fresh embarrassment. I’ve been around nets since I was born. If anything, I should have recognized it at once.

Flustered, I rummage around in the bag until I find gauze. My shoulder aches under the fresh pressure, but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do, put pressure on an open wound? The last thing I need is for it to attract more snakes, or worse, infection.

The food I rationed last night has soured in the heat; my stomach turns at the smell. I can’t toss it until I break camp, so I shove the leftovers in my backpack and close my eyes.

To my relief, a new parachute arrives, bringing icy water, more rolls from 4, and a fresh cup of soup. I find that these portions are all my stomach can keep down at the moment. Inwardly, I thank my lucky stars for sponsors. I’m too tired to speak.

Tomorrow I’ll have to be better. If there are a lot of people counting on me, I’ve saved their finances by coming back from the dead. But it’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough. I have to show that I’m strong and capable. I’m worth betting on, they’ll see.

The time for evasion is over. Tomorrow is the time to go on the offensive. It’s just like the Training Center. The first few days were practice; the last day was the real trial.

The incident with the snake proved that I’ve been taking opportunites for granted. I didn’t run from the Careers to hide for all of the Games. I ran away to avoid being hunted; now it’s my turn to be the hunter.

I was born a fisherman. I’ve learned to lure, to ensnare, to kill. It’s time to put those skills to use. I will not lose.

 _Odairs are not afraid_ , I think. With those words in mind, I drift off to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

I sleep the third day of the Games away. It was almost noon when I was attacked; exhausted, I slept through that afternoon and into the night.

When I wake up again, it’s early morning. The fourth day of the Hunger Games. Once I’m up, I find I can’t sleep another minute; too restless from the snake attack, probably. I wonder if I’ll ever sleep peacefully again.

I eat the last of my fresh food and think about how close I danced to dying. Too close.

I made a promise to myself. The time for evasion and avoiding is over. I was born a Career; I was born to kill.

The thought hits me so fast I’m breathless. It’s still early; I doubt anyone’s watching in the Capitol but I don’t care. Cautiously, I sit up, making sure I still can. When I’m confident I can function properly, I dig out my knife and set to work, cutting at the trees around me.

The vines are wide and thick; they are hard to cut, but a dream once I have them. Perfect for nets and knots. I cut down as many as I can reach, letting my hands do the busy work. The sun rises while I weave, and then I know it’s time to go. I have a plan now, and it’s time to put it to good use. As I break camp, smoke rises near the mountain.

Hmm. The tribute who built that fire is clever. A fire at dusk would be an invitation for trouble; Careers hunt in the evenings. A fire in the early morning is genius. With all the other tributes still stirring, it’s the perfect time to pull a meal together.

That Capitol medicine had more kick than I thought. I find a new energy coursing through my body, healing me from the inside out. And with these heightened senses, I can—dimly—hear footsteps in the forest behind me.

I pause, then continue walking. A stalker. I’m not sure if they’ve been following me since I broke camp last night, or since I’ve reentered the forest this morning. I decide that this is the perfect opportunity to test my net and capture this stranger.

It takes less than a minute for me to construct the trap. The noise is louder now—my shadow is coming closer. I slip behind a tree and into the shade, drawing my knife. Now all I need is for the fish to swim into my net.

The District 10 boy steps out from the trees, a spear in his hands. His eyes are narrowed, ears perked. I understand. His district keeps livestock. He’s been tracking animals since he could toddle.

He stares at the ground, looking for tracks. I’m not worried. He knows how to hunt, I’ll give him that, but he’s never been the hunted. He steps forward, into the noose, and then I know he’s mine.

The rope pulls him sharply into the air, the spear sliding out of his hands. He shouts in surprise, flailing as blood rushes to his head. I take this moment to step out of my hiding place. He sees the knife in my hands and jerks helplessly, yelling for people back home.

I slit his throat wide open, watching the blood drip over his chin. The boy makes a gasping, strangled noise, and shivers. The net keeps him suspended in the air, and his body swings sickeningly from side to side. The cannon fires.

It’s a moment before I can move. When I do, I cut the body down and take the net with me. My shoes squeak and slosh with his blood, but I’m surprisingly calm. No shaking.

The girl from 7 had been practice. Now I’m playing the real game. This will show the sponsors.

As I walk, I look up at the sky, wondering what my district is thinking of my actions. I imagine a number of Capitol citizens watching me now, reconsidering their bets. Putting up more money. Laughing at the people who thought I was done for.

I decide to take a break, throwing away the spoiled food at last. While I take a minute to rest, a new parachute drops into my lap. Huh. Mags must have her hands full with all these sponsors; I wonder if I should even bother setting snares while I sleep.

No. I won’t get complacent. There are twelve of us left; I shouldn’t count my winnings just yet.

I decide to hike to the river again. If the girl from 7 was desperate for water, then the other tributes must be, too. Someone will come for a drink, and I’ll deal with them one by one.

I don’t have to worry about killing someone, though. The Gamemakers do that for me.

When I reach the riverside, I’m just in time to see the boy from 11 being dragged beneath the water by a gigantic snake, its body as wide as a tree trunk. The sight stops me cold and I turn around, hiking back into the forest. My experience with snakes has not been good; I’m not going to stick around and be the victim again.

Distantly, I hear the cannon fire. I’m sure the Gamemakers must be beside themselves. I killed a boy and then two hours later, Panem gets to see another one be eaten by a monstrous serpent. This _is_ a bloody Games.

I count on my fingers. Thirteen tributes dead. Eleven left to play. Over half of us are gone.

My thoughts return to District 4. I wonder how Eloise’s family is doing. If I wasn’t a tribute, I would have my bets on her, not the obnoxious fourteen year old. Even if she’s dead, I know she must have gone out fighting. There’s no way she would have succumbed to death so easily.

It’s only the fourth day of the Games. I can’t remember the shortest one ever, but this _must_ make some sort of record; thirteen dead in four days. Pretty good for an unremarkable Bloodbath. I smile absently. I wonder if I can make it fourteen by noon.

———

The next day of the Games dawns with a chill in the air. It will be gone by midday, but it’s nice not to wake up covered in sweat.

I have my breakfast and break camp, thinking. There’s eleven of us left. My odds to win are getting better by the minute. I tenatively start to think about home, noting I have a real chance now. Even if the Career pack is still intact, the bond will break when they realize I’m hunting them.

I wonder if they actually consider me a threat. The nightly death recap only says which tributes are dead, not who killed them. I ran from the pack on the first day. If they haven’t found me yet, perhaps it’s because they aren’t looking. But that will change soon, I can feel it.

I slash through vegetation with my knife, feeling the humidity rise. Today I’ve decided to try visiting the mountain. The Careers need a safe place to camp. The desert is too hot in the day and equally cold at night. They seemed reluctant to be in the rainforest when they found the blood by the river; the mountain seems like the best option. It provides natural protection, shelter, and food.

Getting to the mountain requires walking through a sparse, open valley. The trees are spaced wider apart, providing less cover. I decide to stop and rest anyway, knowing that I’m armed and capable of fighting anyone who steps in my way.

I’ve been resting for a good ten minutes when I spot a parachute on the horizon. It blocks out the sun for a moment, sparkling silver and white, then drifts gently to the ground in front of me.

The package is long and thin. My eyebrows knit together as I predict the contents. Is it a weapon? The knives have been more than enough for me.

But as I rip open the wrapping, I realize I couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s not just any weapon—it’s a trident.

It’s _perfect_.

I can’t stop my smile as I lift it from the tissue paper, caressing it in my hands. It’s gilded gold and gleaming. Real gold is much lighter; there is some kind of metal underneath the shiny paint, but I don’t care about what it looks like. I care about what it feels like.

It was _made_ for me.

I stand up, testing the weight in my hands. It’s just the right size and height; I throw it into a nearby tree, hearing the metal sing through the air. It cuts into the wood like a knife into butter, vibrating with the impact. I laugh, uncaring of any tributes in the vicinity, and tilt my head toward the sky.

“Thank you,” I say happily. “Whoever you are.”

I decide to leave one of my knives in the tree I skewered. My new trident is more than enough, and I have the smaller dagger as a backup. To carry it, I strap it to my backpack, diagonally, so I can grab it at a moment’s notice. The curved blades are directly parallel to my head; I can hear the wind whistling through the teeth as I walk.

The trees get thick again around the mountain. The environment begins to change. There is less humidity; the air isn’t so heavy. I can hear the growls and hisses of large, unseen beasts. On the first day of the Games, I remember hearing these noises while I waited for the gong to sound. They must be very powerful if I could hear them all the way from the Cornucopia.

Just to be safe, I pull my trident from my back. Should something come charging out of the woods, it will get a kiss from a gold, gleaming bullet.

The path I choose is a rocky one. It zigs and zags around trees and bushes; I even spy something that looks like quicksand. The rocks are soon replaced with grass and stout trees. I keep my tread soft; only a whisper announces my feet across the ground.

Then, so quietly that I’m sure if I breathed I wouldn’t have picked it up, I hear the smallest of moans.

Instantly, I’m on the alert. My trident is ready to fly, I just need to find the target. I hear the sound again, quieter this time, and follow it. A wounded tribute, perhaps? Someone attacked and left for dead?

There is no one in sight. Frowning, I wonder if this is some sort of trick by the Gamemakers. Have I been lured into something more sinister? I’m prepared to run away when I hear the moan again, a third time, and it’s almost inaudible.

If she hadn’t fallen out of the tree, I would have walked right by her.

One minute I have my trident poised to attack, and then next, a girl slides off a branch and onto my back. Surprised, we tumble to the ground together.

I’m on my feet at once, trident drawn up to strike. Then, strangely, I feel a wave of shame wash over me.

The girl can’t be more than twelve years old. There’s blood seeping through the fabric of her shirt, and her skin is a waxy white. Relucantly, I lower the weapon.

I can’t remember her at all. I spent all of my lunches with the Careers, and the training on my own. I can’t even place her in a district. Something about that makes me feel worse, like she’s just a cog in the entire working of the Games.

“What happened?” I ask the spreading blood stain. My tone is too harsh—from the corner of my eye, I can see her flinch.

“Some kind of cat,” she says, then moans again. “A panther, I think.”

Unwillingly, I kneel at her side, stowing the trident on my back. Nervously, she unzips her jacket. I can feel her watching me, waiting for my reaction.

I’ll admit, it’s ghastly. If I thought the snake attack was bad, then this is ten times worse. Her skin has been clawed and chewed up, leaving a gaping hole in her belly.

Bile rises in my throat. This was meant to incapacitate her. The panther had few bites, then dragged her body into the tree to feast on later. This wasn’t a muttation. Some things in nature are crueler than the Gamemakers. Like me, for example.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks. _Yes. No. Yes._

“No,” I say, knowing that the sponsors are probably breathing fire at this moment. They gave me a trident and I spare the next tribute I stumble across. But I make another discovery.

I don’t care.

“Why not?”

 _Something else already has_ , I want to say. But I don’t. Not that. No, I search for a safer topic.

“What’s your name?”

“Holly,” the girl coughs, and I can see it shake her whole frame. “District Eight.”

 _Holly_. I like it. Her hair is a violent shade of red. It frames her face, making the skin look paler, like the waterside flowers near the Victor’s Village. Her eyes are blue. Not like the sea. Like hyacinth. My sister Emilia is the gardener of the family, and she grows that flower and others in our windowboxes.

“Holly,” I repeat, sitting near her head. “I’m Finnick, Finnick Odair. District Four.”

“District Four,” she breathes, those eyes flickering to the trident on my back. “I’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”

Something inside me recoils at those words. We both know she’s too far gone to ever consider that notion, and even if she pulled through this injury, the Careers would eat her alive.

“It’s unbelievable,” I admit, though I’m not sure if I’m talking about her predicament or District 4. But I change the subject, because for some reason, I want to keep her talking. Anything to distract her from that awful wound.

I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Four,” she murmurs. “I’m the youngest. Lily, Violet, Daisy, Rose, and me.”

“All flowers, huh?”

“My mother is a dressmaker,” Holly smiles, and sweat breaks out on her forehead. “She says she wanted to name us after pretty things.”

I smile. “Prophetic.”

She _is_ very pretty. It’s hard to imagine that we’re only two years apart. She’s bony and petite, like she stopped growing before she was ready. I know that if she could stand, she’d have to tilt her head back to look at me. Most people do.

Though I’m hesitant to admit it to myself, she reminds me of the girls in my life back home. I have a number of female cousins, in addition to my three sisters. I know I’d want someone with them in their last moments, if the situation was reversed. It’s hypocritical of me. I killed two other tributes without a second thought. But this is different. They weren’t helpless.

Holly’s smile falters; I watch tears brim in her eyes. “I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say.

Holly turns her gaze to the sky. After a moment, her face twists in distress. “I can’t see it.”

“Do you want to?” I ask, suddenly desperate.

It’s not fair, any of it. It’s not fair that she’s twelve years old and about to die, when five days ago she was full of life. It’s not fair that I’m unable to put her out of her misery, despite the fact I’ve murdered two other tributes. It’s not fair that I’m transferring feelings I have my family onto her.

She beams, and for a moment, I can pretend she’s not slipping away. “Okay.”

Cautiously, I slide my arms under her knees and behind her shoulders. She’s light as a feather. To keep her warm during the walk, I wrap her up in her jacket. She rests her cheek against my shoulder, eyes closed.

I wonder what my parents are thinking of my actions. I said it myself: there is no room for mercy in the Hunger Games. That’s what I’ve been taught. But in practice . . . I can’t. She’s a child. We all are. Am I not allowed to feel pity?

I take care as I walk. Too much movement could cause her more pain. She doesn’t say a word of protest, though. Every so often, I have to touch her arm, feeling for a pulse. At last, we reach the area where I received the trident. It’s still sparse and empty, but the view is inescapable. From her position, she’ll see sky in every direction.

Gently, I ease Holly onto the ground, and try to make her comfortable, fashioning a pillow out of my own jacket.

“Tell me about the ocean, Finnick.”

I look up at her voice, which is wispy and soft. There’s a lump in my throat. It’s a moment before I can speak.

“It’s like the sky. Blue and beautiful,” I explain. She takes my hand. “My sister Phoebe thinks there has to be a place where it ends, where the water runs off the edge of the map. Where the world ends. I don’t think so. It goes on and on.”

I almost say _on past Panem_ , but stop myself just in time. To even consider a limit on the country is treason. Panem’s will is endless. But am I defying that will now, by being merciful?

Holly squeezes my hand; I return the pressure. Her voice quavers. “I’m scared, Finnick.”

I can hear Emilia whispering in my ear. _Holly_ , for kindness and friendship. _Hyacinth_ , for sincerity. _Sea lilies_ , for death.

“I’m sorry, Holly,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Tears slide down her face. “Tell me more.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, and force a smile. I imagine I’m telling Owen a bedtime story.

“The sea has salt. It makes you float. Sometimes, if you swim far out into the bay, you can see a reef. There’s all kinds of wildlife. Pinks, and greens, and yellows. All underneath the blue water.”

She closes her eyes briefly. I squeeze her hand again; she sighs. “Colors.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Fish of all shapes and sizes. Violet, orange, red.”

“Enjoy that first swim,” Holly says after a long silence. “When you win. When you go home. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Her breaths are short and painful. I can feel my eyes burning; I grit my teeth to keep the tears in. For a moment, she’s Phoebe. Emilia. Lucia. Cassandra. Helene. Abigail. Then she’s Holly again, white and red, still and silent.

She squeezes my hand for the final time. There’s one last, quiet sigh from her lips.

The cannon fires.

I need to leave now. Any minute, the hovercraft will be arriving to take her body away. She’ll be sent home to 8, where her family can bury her in peace.

Her hand falls limply to her chest. A shiver goes down my spine. I’m being watched. But it’s not a tribute. It’s all of Panem.

I stand, staring at her tiny, mauled body on the ground. I look up; the hovercraft is a dot in the sky, but it’s coming.

My fingers brush along the hilt of the dagger. I seize it, then cut Phoebe’s rope bracelet from my wrist.

Holly’s arm is so slender that I have to tie a few knots to make it stay on. I can’t let the hovercraft take the body away without a part of the sea to go with her. When the last tie is in place, I lift a hand to close her eyes. I lean down and whisper a farewell.

Birds in the trees take flight; the hovercraft is seconds away. With one more look at Holly, I turn my back and retreat to the rainforest.

———

The death recap begins. Holly’s face is illuminated against the night sky. No one else appears. Her picture disorts, the night is dark again, and everything is silent.

 _Fourteen dead, ten left to play_.


	8. Chapter 8

I’ve been in the arena for six days.

After I capture the boy from 7 and the girl from 10, there are eight of us left.

Back home, the Capitol will be interviewing our families and compiling footage of each tribute. We all will be the the stars of our own special features, complete with clips of our chariot rides, the interviews, training scores, and our families’ contributions. The betting in the Capitol will skyrocket and the commentators start making their own predictions, using statistics and past footage.

I wonder how my special feature will be edited. I’m sure I’ll be portrayed as a sympathetic (so _young_ , just trying to win, and unwilling to let that little girl die) or sly tribute, playing with the emotion of my audience.

It’s infuriating. I didn’t stay with Holly for show. I did it because she was one of the youngest tributes, and equally as lonely. She was slowly bleeding to death; it was not quick or painless. I wanted to comfort her.

Now I’m getting angry. Angry at the Capitol for these Games. Angry at the sponsor who sent me the trident, like they know who I am and everything about me. Angry at myself for the tributes I’ve murdered. I can’t even force myself to hate the Careers. Deep down, past the bloodlust and the desire for glory, they’re children. We all are.

I make an effort to be ruthless with my next kills, to make up for what I know will be called a ‘lapse of judgement’ with Holly.

The audience will never see how smart she was. Though small, she made it far in the Games. Like me, she avoided the Careers and found shelter away from them. Her only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The panther didn’t seek her out, like a muttation might have. Her death was completely by chance.

Hours after the Capitol airs the final eight specials, I capture the girl from 3 and the boy from 9. My net is much bigger now; there’s plenty of room for every tribute in this arena. While they thrash inside it, I use my trident and spear them through the holes. It isn’t pretty; they shriek until the very end, as blood spurts out of half a dozen wounds.

I cut them down and retrieve the net, leaving their bodies and supplies for the hovercraft. I don’t need anything else; the sponsors and Mags are keeping me well fed.

Eighteen dead. Six left to play.

It’s now the sixth night of the Games. True sleep evades me; I can see the faces of each tribute who died at my hands. Eloise and Holly also appear in my dreams, but they turn and walk away before I can speak with them.

I return to the river to find a new tribute. It’s the girl from 6. She’s fashioned some sort of irrigation system in the river. The water flows with gravity through a wooden tube and into her container. From there, she filters everything out. Pretty good for the Transportation district.

She’s so confident that, even with a torch, she doesn’t see the net fall over her until it’s too late.

Nineteen dead. Five left to play.

It’s only then that I realize that I’ve left the entire Career pack alive, all four of them.

———

During the night, I hike back to the mountain. Even in the dark, I can detect that I’m passing over the valley where Holly died. The thought propels me forward. For a moment, I wonder if her spirit still lingers here, where she waited to die.

My earlier prediction turns out to be true; the Careers did decide to camp at the base of the mountain. It’s not the rainforest, the river, or the desert. They have a natural barrier to defend, diverse hunting grounds, and shelter.

From my perch just beyond the clearing, I can see that they have spears, knives, and swords. The only thing they don’t have is a lot of food. Even with sponsor support, they look skinnier than I’ve ever seen Careers look at this point in the Games. I’m guessing they don’t know how to hunt, even with more weapons than they need.

I smirk, and silently thank my mentor for her wisdom. All four members of the pack avoided the other survival stations, claiming such things were beneath them. Now they’ve been reduced to eating the last of the nonperishable food from the Cornucopia, or begging for sponsors to send meals, which doesn’t appear to be happening.

It’s unusual that they are still sticking together, when only five remain in the arena. Perhaps they want to kill me first. Just as this thought crosses my mind, they start talking about me.

“I _told_ you,” Caterina hisses to no one in particular. “We should have killed him on the first day.”

“I thought Eloise was the real threat!” Brandon snaps back, sharpening a knife with the bottom of his boot. “Besides, he ran away. _You_ couldn’t even track him.”

So they did kill Eloise, then. Now as I study Brandon further, I see a long slash from his left ear that curves toward the middle of his collarbones. If her knife had strayed a little more, she would have cut his throat open.

I smile. So she did go out fighting. Good for her. Eloise will receive a warrior’s honors at her funeral, I’m sure of it.

“She could have helped us find him,” Sapphire says darkly. “Let’s start the hunt in the morning. Then we’ll throw him in the river like a stupid fish.”

 _You’ll be the first to die tomorrow_ , I promise.

The four of them snicker, like it’s the best joke they’ve ever heard. I roll my eyes. I’m sure the Capitol citizens are loving this, but honestly? Fish jokes? That’s all?

“I’ll be the one to kill him,” Aleksandar says quietly, when the laughter dies down. “Only me.”

Surprisingly, no one protests, not even Caterina. I see her thumb one of the knives, toying with the idea of my death. I outscored them all in training, which seems like a petty foundation for revenge. But Aleksandar must be the ringleader, because no one challenges him. Thinking back, I did peg him as the most dangerous one in training. Well, that figures. There’s always an alpha who emerges in the pack. Peacekeepers are bred from 2; no wonder he’s so indifferent to murder.

The four settle in for the night. Brandon keeps watch. I’m not tired; I watch the camp all night. I can see him shifting in his seat, glancing at his comrades. He’s obviously thinking about killing them while they sleep. Our thoughts seem to follow the same route; he could probably only get away with one kill before the other two wake up. Then he has a pair of enemies on his tail.

He doesn’t do it. Just before dawn, he wakes Sapphire. Shift change. She leans against a rock, spear in hand, watching the trees intently. Wondering if I’ll jump out of one, I assume. Not likely. I’ve decided that my best method is to draw the quartet away from one another, and dispose of them individually. There’s no use in me running into the thick of things and getting killed.

Maybe I can set up my net before they break camp. It’s a little snug for four people, since I’ve been cutting it after each kill, but it would make my job a lot easier. More opportunities to stab; they’ll be so tightly bound that movement will be impossible.

 _Squished together like sardines_. The image brings a savage grin to my lips.

The Gamemakers must be expecting a bloody finale, because the area around us is silent. I wonder if they have recalled all their muttations, leaving only the native wildlife in the arena.

A window of opportunity opens up. As the sun breaks over the horizon, Sapphire tiptoes over to Caterina, and shakes her.

“Cat. _Cat_. Wake up!”

Caterina groans. “What?”

“I’m going to get water. Be right back.”

Caterina grunts and rolls over. Sapphire picks up her spear and leaves the camp, while her allies snore around the extinct fire.

I count to thirty before I climb out of my tree and follow her. I’ve learned to keep my tread quiet; her blonde head never turns. When she makes a sudden, sharp right, I hasten to follow her.

In one of the low-lying trees, they’ve set up a rainwater collection system. Containers of every shape and size hang from the branches. Most of them must be from the Cornucopia.

I’ve seen everything I need to. She’ll take one of those containers, drink, rest, then head back to the pack. Then they’ll hunt me. If I want to win, my plan needs to happen immediately.

I retrace her footsteps until I’m halfway between the water and the camp. Three minutes later, I’ve constructed my biggest trap yet. When she walks into it, the Careers will be too late. It’s still a great enough distance from their hideout. The three of them will be awakened by her screams; I’ve set up nooses for the entire pack, in case there’s an ambush.

My nerves are raw. The Games are almost over. I can feel victory in my grasp. I can taste it. The crown is mine. Finnick Odair, winner of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games.

It has a nice ring to it.

While I wait, I take the time to cut the sleeves off the shirt, freeing my arms. My jacket is not an issue; I left that with Holly. I smear mud on my body, camouflaging my skin. Svein, Ursula, and Halla are probably weeping at my actions, but I promise to myself that if I win, I won’t say a word of protest when they inevitably give me a makeover.

At last, I can her the sound of Sapphire returning. I pull the trident from my back and prepare myself. She’s dragging the spear across the ground lazily, her head tilted back to sip more water.

 _Idiot_. One of the biggest mistakes tributes make is letting their guard down this far in the Games. I learned that lesson the hard way. For Sapphire, it’s too late.

I smile as she steps into the noose. Seconds later, her spear and water are discarded on the ground, and she’s in my net, a pretty blonde fish, her fingers clawing at the vines.

“And to think you didn’t expect much of me,” I say, exiting my hiding place. Her eyes bulge; her mouth falls open to shriek. She doesn’t get the chance. I draw the trident behind my head and let it fly.

Her scream cuts off into a gurgle. The trident goes through her eye sockets, the teeth coated in brain matter. I hear the cannon and know she’s gone.

“Twenty dead,” I say to her immobile corpse. “Four left to play.”

One minute later, I’ve cut the net down, readjusted it, and laid her body next to a tree. The trident slides out of her head with a squelching noise.

The sound of running feet alerts me to a new adversary; this time, I hold my ground.

Caterina’s throw is too wide; I don’t even have to move. The knife flies into a tree and stays there. She picks out another, still running in my direction, and in her haste to kill me, she also forgets to check her feet. The net closes in.

She dangles from the canopy, screeching. Her allies still aren’t here to save her. I wonder why. Nevertheless, she dies the same way as Sapphire, when I introduce her to the power of the trident.

 _Twenty-one dead_ , I mouth. _Three left to play_.

Through the foliage, I can hear the faint clash of metal and know that the Career alliance has officially been broken. Perhaps the boys think that all that screaming was due to the girls turning on each other. But even that explanation doesn’t make sense; Sapphire’s cannon fired before Caterina could reach her.

Brandon and Aleksandar have picked up swords and started the battle. I hang back in the shadows, watching. There’s quite a bit of blood already; 1 and 2 have never been known for fair play.

To my amusement, the path of their fight is slowly inching toward my traps. It would be strategic to battle against the face of the rock, to hold ground, but they aren’t thinking straight. I wonder if they remember I’m still alive, even if it was discussed last night. Perhaps they think my cannon fired while they slept, or that one of their allies killed me.

 _Clearly not_. When they do eventually fall prey to my nets, the two look so surprised to see me that I have a good laugh at their expense.

“You!” Aleksandar snarls, struggling to reach his weapon. It’s on the ground, far out of reach.

“Me,” I agree, leaning on Sapphire’s discarded spear. Only now do they see the bodies of their district partners, and realize, too late, that I’ve been the one hunting tributes.

“You’re supposed to be—” Brandon sputters.

“Dead,” I finish for him. “On day three, actually. Snakebite. But fortunately for me, I had sponsors.”

“And we had to live on dried fruit!” he fumes.

“This conversation has been _riveting_ ,” I sigh. “But I have the Hunger Games to win.”

In the end, I hate myself for playing up on the theatrics. Their deaths are gorier than Sapphire’s or Caterina’s. With so little room to move, the wounds from the trident are shallow and more drawn out. Finally, the twenty-third cannon, Aleksandar’s, fires.

With glassy eyes and blood splattered over every inch of skin, they no longer look fearsome. Only boys. Boys who fancied themselves men because they took innocent lives and faced no consequences.

The birds sing out in warning; I need to clear out so the bodies can be taken away.

With the trident still gripped in my hand, I turn back and head toward the valley. The sun is higher now. I return to the spot where Holly died, and tilt my head to the sky.

The trumpets begin to blare. I clutch the trident, feeling the metal cut into a callus I have between my thumb and index finger. There’s blood all over me; I can taste it on my tongue. A strangled noise escapes my throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, Finnick Odair! I give you—the tribute of District Four!”


	9. Chapter 9

_I’ve won_.

My eardrums are blasted with the roar of the crowd. It’s the Capitol audience, broadcasted live from inside the city, cheering my name. I close my eyes for a moment and smile.

I can’t believe it. Not yet.

When I open them again, the hovercraft has appeared out of thin air. A ladder is lowered to the ground; I sling the trident onto my back. With both hands free, I jump for it, clutching the midde rungs. An electric current zooms through my body, freezing me there, as the ladder is withdrawn into the hovercraft.

Once I’m safely inside, the current stops and I’m free to move around. But even with the electricity gone, I’m shivering so hard that the world is disorted. A Capitol attendant finds me this way, and asks if I want something. Anything at all.

“Water,” I croak, though it’s not hydration I’m after. It’s something to do, busy work, a gesture that can keep me occupied. But it’s more. I want the seawater, swallowing me whole. I’ll sink beneath the waves, eyes closed. No one can catch me there. No one will see the blood on my hands, the water will wash it all away.

When the glass is placed in my hands, I gulp the water greedily, as if I’m still in the arena. Three sips later, the walls start to shimmer. It’s laced with something potent. My mouth makes a _gruhhhh_ sound as I struggle to hold on. I can’t. The last thing I see is the gold gleam of my trident, caked with blood.

———

One morning in District 4, fog hid the harbor from us. Boats collided in the water, the fish were devoured in our nets, and a few people drowned, not realizing they had drifted so far from the shore.

I feel like I’m inside that fog now. The Gamemakers must be behind this. It prevents me from resisting medical help. I can’t remember any longlasting injuries besides the snakebite, so this makes me angry. I just want to go home.

The first time I attempt to escape is also my last. When I come to, Mags and Septima are waiting.

“ _Hiughhh_ ,” I slur.

Septima giggles. “Oh, _Finnick_.”

I glance at Mags, attempting to move my fingers. She understands and takes my hand, smiling. “You won.”

The world blurs and I’m pulled into the fog again; I don’t resist this time. If Mags and Septima are near, then this bizarre treatment must be almost over.

After what seems like eons, I wake to see a nurse pulling needles from my arm. I don’t say anything, not trusting my voice. If she sees me watching, it goes by unacknowledged. Needle by needle. One by one. Finally, she tells me that breakfast is just down the hall and I’m free to walk there, if I’m able.

I am. The first steps are wobbly, but I lift my arms up for balance. When I’ve mastered that, I grab the clothes they left for me and jog out the door.

I let my nose lead the way. Mags, Septima, and Mathias are waiting for me, but they aren’t alone. I spot a camera crew behind them, and pause.

It seems like a lifetime ago, but I remember my strategy. _Be charming_.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say cheerfully. “I found another snake in my bed.”

Septima laughs, and the camera crew joins in. They film me joining my team at the table, then pack up and leave.

“Here,” she continues, less bubbly with the camera gone; now she’s all business. “This is yours.”

I ate better in the arena. Here I’m given one roll, a small portion of soup, and a glass of water. _This is it?_

“This won’t hold me for long,” I growl, tearing through the roll in less than a minute.

Septima _tsks_ at me. “Dear, if I could, I would. But every victor has to be readjusted. Standard procedure.”

I shoot a pleading look across the table to Mathias. When Septima excuses herself for the powder room, he tosses me a muffin.

“You enjoy that,” he warns. “The preps are coming.”

I chuckle, wolf down the muffin, and wipe my mouth before Septima comes back.

———

“How long has it been?”

“Three days.”

“What for?” I say angrily. “I was fine.”

“That antidote they sent you only slowed down the snake venom,” Mathias explains, leading the way through the Training Center. In a few minutes, the prep team is going to remake me for the final viewing of the Games, and my last interview with Caesar. We only have a short time alone before that happens. “The Gamemakers had to extract it from your body.”

“Oh.” Mollified, I don’t inquire further.

“Finnick!” Halla squeals when we enter the room. “You’re here!”

Somehow, I find the energy to smile. “I’m here.”

All three of them kiss me on the mouth, even Svein, who giggles afterward. Mathias flashes his usual thumbs-up and leaves the room, abandoning me with the preps.

Together, they transform me back into a human being. During the process, Ursula pauses for a moment at my shoulder. “Not a flaw left on you, if there was one! Not even that awful bite.”

“What?”

She finds a mirror and holds it up. True to her words, the wound is gone. The Gamemakers must have airbrushed it clean off. I press my fingers to where the teeth entered, and find no trace of it. No pain, either.

“I was at the salon, pricing body gems,” Svein gushes, his fingers moving through my hair. “I swear everyone in that room couldn’t move a _muscle_ until you left that tree!”

“I was entertaining a guest,” Ursula says dreamily. “Two, actually.”

“Minx,” Halla purrs, then turns to me. “Were you frightened, Finnick?”

“Yes,” I admit, watching them coo over me at this display of vulnerability. “Lucky I had all those sponsors, though.”

They don’t even realize I’m fishing for information. “Oh, of course! People were betting diamonds and wigs and even their own houses on you!”

That makes me uncomfortable. I close my eyes and let them fuss over me, remembering my promise in the arena. While they chatter about the new fashions that will inevitably reflect my district, I think about Owen. My sisters. My parents. Holly.

When Mathias arrives with my clothes, he’s already dressed for the viewing. The prep team runs off to change, and I know they’ll be dressed similarly. As for me, my outfit is a simple black suit, with a blue button-up shirt underneath. Usually I wouldn’t care, but it seems so normal. Very unlike the Capitol fashions.

“You’re hardly the muddy tribute Panem saw three days ago,” my stylist says, brushing invisible specks of dust off my shoulders.

I laugh; it’s a tired sound. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

“A victor,” Mathias answers, turning me to face him. We’re almost the same height; I never noticed that before. “Finnick Odair, the sixty-fifth victor.”

These three days are supposed to mold me from bloody champion to polished celebrity. I don’t feel like either one. I think I’m still in that fog of medicine, lost and drifting. But I’m here, due on stage in fifteen minutes, about to watch my Games in front of all of Panem.

“Smile, Finnick,” he says quietly. “You’re irresistable when you smile.”

I smile. He nods, and we leave the room together.

———

We’re led to a series of lifts that will bring us up to the stage. Ursula, Halla and Svein will go first, then Septima, Mathias, Mags, and me.

For a second, I imagine I’m back in the Launch Room. At any moment, the plate is going to rise and I’ll be sent to the arena. The thought is so overpowering that I press my hand to the wall, feeling my knees knock together.

“Odairs are not afraid,” I whisper. I don’t care if they have microphones down here, I don’t care who’s listening in. I need to hear the words aloud, not repeat them in my head. When I pull the Odair token out from under my shirt, I feel better. I like to think of it as a reminder of what I’m going home to.

The anthem plays again, and Caesar Flickerman addresses the audience. After a few jokes about tridents and seafood, he starts the introductions. The crowd goes wild for my team. It relaxes me to know that they’ll be on stage during the viewing, providing support. When the last few cheers for Mags die down (she’s been around so long that people think of her as a permanent fixture when 4 wins), the plate begins to rise. I stand up straight.

Inexplicably, my mind drifts to Holly. _Enjoy that first swim_ , she had said. _When you win. When you go home. Promise me._

“Finnick Odair!”

The crowd is screaming my name, but I can’t see them, the lights are so bright. I conjure up a grin that Mathias would be proud of, and wave to the audience. Their response is so loud that I have to laugh, and I can see Mags nodding in approval.

 _Charming_. I repeat the word over and over.

When Caesar and I shake hands, I remember our last interview. He had been starstruck afterwards; I’m determined to make that happen again.

“Mr. Odair,” he smiles. “The boy with the trident. Welcome back.”

“Mr. Flickerman,” I say coyly. “I knew we’d meet again.”

The crowd titters in response. I wink in their direction, then direct my gaze to the victor’s chair. With Caesar and the rest of Panem watching me, I slide into it with a subtle grace. He comments on how comfortable I look there, and I flash him a mischevious look.

It’s easy to slip into this sexy, Capitol persona. I find it’s not very different from my usual youngest-child-what-a-ham one at home. It’s just a little more suggestive. The key is to act like it’s all about me. And it is. This is my achievement, no matter how gruesome it is.

The lights dim, and the show is about to begin. I know it will last for three hours, and everyone in the nation is watching. Sometimes, the Capitol will do a splitscreen between the victor and the footage, showing their reactions to it. It takes some doing, but I find a neutral expression.

The first thirty minutes are fine. I watch my Reaping again and want to dive through the screen into District 4. Owen and my family are briefly visible, and I miss them so much it hurts. I see the chariot ride, the ten I received in training, and my flirtatious first interview with Caesar.

When it’s time for the Games to begin, it’s harder to keep my face smooth. The Gamemakers show my flight from the Cornucopia, but also when Eloise is murdered. I learn that she managed to wound Caterina _and_ Aleksandar, in addition to Brandon, who she cut the most. From then on, it’s all about me.

The girl from 7, my first kill, dies in the water. The pirahas have a mind of their own, and even dismantle an underwater camera after they feast on her body. The audience makes silly faces, like it’s something funny.

The snake segment is the worst part. They take great care to show it wrapping around the tree, its yellow eyes fixed on my throat. There are a lot of closeups, which is kind of mortifying. My teeth are grinding at the sight, watching the snake slink across my stomach. Mathias is trying to catch my eye; I give him a curt nod of acknowledgement.

I watch myself lock eyes with the creature. My knife draws back; the creature strikes. The Gamemakers show quick cuts of the attack; my scream was so loud that the even Careers were awakened by it, when they were still camped in the desert. I get better, though.

When I receive the trident, the crowd starts chanting. It takes a moment, but then I realize they’re saying _Neptune, Neptune, Neptune_. The god of the sea. Mathias and I share a mutual, sincere smile.

And then comes the moment with Holly. The audience shushes each other; Caesar leans forward, interested. I want to tear my hair out. The editors have set it to some cheesy, sad music. I’m portrayed as a gentleman, staying with the doomed girl until she dies. The cameras linger on the bracelet, and then her body is gone.

My remaining kills and the showdown with the Careers are highly theatrical, with dizzying handheld shots, intense music, and emphasis on me and my trident.

At last, when it’s over, the anthem plays. We all rise, and President Snow arrives to crown me. I have to kneel due to our height difference. My nose is level with his breast pocket, where a single white rose rests. It has a curious smell. Almost manufactured, in a way.

I can feel the weight of the crown on my head, pushing down like an anchor. Sixty-four other people have worn it before me; if I listen hard enough, I imagine I can hear the cries of past victims.

I don’t let it show, though. I wave and smile and pose all evening, through the Victory Banquet, endless pictures, and handshakes with sponsors.

I’m sent to bed like a spoilt child. My final interview is tomorrow, and apparently I need my rest. Sleep again evades me; I give up at three in the morning, and wait for Septima to arrive. The prep team bemoans about how pale I am, but Mathias shoos them away when their work is done.

I’m dressed casually, just a pair of slacks and a green button-down shirt. Septima trills that it matches my eye color _exactly_. Lucky for me, it’s just Caesar Flickerman, a handful of cameras, and some assistants today. The interview is a subdued, relaxed affair.

“Finnick, being from the oceanic district, what were your first thoughts when you saw the arena?”

Most of the questions are like that. He asks about Eloise, Holly, and the Careers. He asks about home, and about my family. He asks if I’ll mentor. I answer to the best of my ability, and from Mags’s expression, I’m doing very well. It’s charisma I’m good at, and I pull everyone into my net.

The interview ends and I’m sent back to the Training Center to collect my things. Then Mags, Septima, and Mathias join me in the limo to the train station.

“So I guess this is it,” I say to Mathias, watching the cameras click in our direction. “Well, until the Victory Tour.”

“I’m glad we met, Finnick,” he smiles, then shakes my hand. It doesn’t seem like enough. Impulsively, I hug him. He chuckles, but returns the gesture.

“Save those for your family, boy. I’ll see you in six months.”

We share a thumbs-up. However awkward, it’s our thing. I wave to him and step onto the train. I go to the window, taking a last look at the Capitol. I’ll be back, but it’s one thing to see it on television; it’s yet another to see it in person. It’s still as colorful as ever.

Septima, Mags, and I watch the interview during dinner. I have no idea where Osric is; perhaps he went home after Eloise died. I keep glancing out the window, seeing darkness, but knowing that with every passing minute, I’m closer to 4.

I slip out of the interview clothes and into bed. To my relief, there are no nightmares. Not yet, at least. I’m not sure how long this luxury will last, but I’ll take what I can get.

The morning gives me the greatest gift of all: the sun. And even better, the sea. I press my hand to the glass, watching the water churn and swirl, same as always. If there’s one constant in my life, it’s the ocean.

My stomach twists in knots when I see the train station. I know that winning the Games is life-changing. I’ll be given a new home in the Victor’s Village; the Capitol will pay me a pension for the rest of my life. My family and I will never go hungry.

And when Mags dies, or Osric retires, I’ll be the mentor. It’s almost certain. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Capitol react to a victor the way they reacted to me.

Before I can think any more on the subject, the train stops.

I twist a finger around my token, waiting for Mags. Again, when I’m least expecting it, I think of Holly.

 _“Enjoy that first swim. When you win. When you go home. Promise me.”_

 _I will_ , I want to say, but she’s dead. Mags, as if sensing some pain in me, squeezes my hand. Together, we wait as the doors slide open with a hiss.

My heart leaps. Though that first swim is high on my list, there’s something that ranks far above it.

My family is here.

Mags drops my hand, grinning. I start running.


	10. Chapter 10

The train platform is swarming with reporters and cameras. I skid to a stop in front of them, nearly colliding with one of the lenses. They all want a piece of me, any sort of attention from the victor. But I barely notice them. That brief glimpse of my family didn’t sate my appetite at all. I slog through the crowd, signing autographs and smiling for pictures, but I’m so desperate that I give up.

At last, a window opens. In seconds, I shoot out of the school of Capitol reporters and swim to safety.

For one terrifying moment, I’m afraid that no one will touch me. I’m afraid that my family will shudder at any physical contact, now that they’ve seen me kill. But as soon as that thought crosses my mind, they prove me wrong. I’m ashamed for thinking so little of them.

Soon I’m sprinting, past the cheering crowd and grinning Peacekeepers. Owen and Phoebe are the first to reach me; the three of us form a huddle, fingers and arms locked tightly together. We only have seconds to smile at one another before the rest of my family arrives. Those who are able are running toward me; the others are waving.

“About the bracelet—” I whisper, but Phoebe kisses my cheek.

“It was the right thing to do.”

I don’t have time to respond; everyone engulfs us. My mother is sobbing; I wrap my arms around her while reaching for my father at the same time. He looks so proud of me, I can’t breathe. Emilia and Phoebe join the embrace, but as I glance around for my oldest sister, I realize she’s not here.

Erik is, though. When it’s our turn to hug, I lean in to ask, “Where’s Lucia?”

“Still in bed,” he says, looking exhausted. At my confused expression, one of my aunts—Selene—holds out a bundle of blankets in response. But it’s not a bundle, it’s a baby. Automatically, I fold my arms like a cradle. She curls up to me, searching for a breast. I start to smile, but a chilling thought races through my mind.

“When did she—” a choking noise escapes my throat. I’ve only been gone for . . . how long? A couple of weeks? Lucia wasn’t due to deliver for another two months. What the hell happened?

“It was the morning of the, um, snake,” Erik says quietly. My mother rubs his shoulder in reassurance. It’s clear that it was a trial for everyone. “The stress . . . she went into labor that day.”

My welcoming party inches away from the train platform. I’m still the center of attention, but my eyes are on the the tiny baby in my arms. Her deep blue eyes bore into mine. Fairlead eyes, like her father’s. The Odair nose is there, though. And the hair, what little there is of it.

“We named her Ariadne, for your grandmother,” Erik continues as we walk. The cameras are struggling to follow; we don’t wait up for them. “If she had arrived on time, we would have . . . we would have let you name her.”

Everyone within an arm’s reach sees the name flash through my mind, as if we all share the same thought. My throat constricts; the only thing I can do is nod. Half a dozen hands touch my back soothingly in response.

At last, I’m surrounded by people who understand. I don’t have to pretend.

Ariadne is a little thing, but very pretty. Owen already seems protective of her; when I hand the baby to my mother, he begs to have a turn. Erik allows it, but keeps a watchful eye on both of his children.

The group reaches our front door in a matter of minutes. My father politely asks the camera crews if they want to return tomorrow, when I’m settled. Appeased by this, they pack up and head back to the station, where accommodations have been arranged. Two Capitol attendants leave my trunks (full of clothes and things I’ll wear on the Victory Tour) on the porch.

Our home isn’t big enough to house my extended relatives; we all mingle freely inside and out. Everyone understands when I excuse myself. There’s one person I still have to see.

The windows have been thrown open, allowing a breeze to circulate. The room is a bit cramped; ever since a fire burned down their home, Lucia, Erik, and Owen have been living with us.

My eldest sister is dozing on the bed, but she looks better than I pictured. I sink into a space by her side, then brush the hair out of her eyes.

“Lucia,” I murmur. “I’m home. It’s me, Finnick.”

Her eyes flicker open and she stares at me. Together, our fingers lace into a knot. “It’s really you?”

I laugh, but I want to cry. I had no idea that, while I was battling for my life, my sister was, too. “Yes, it’s me. Don’t recognize your own brother, sis?”

She eases up to kiss my cheek. “Of course I do. Oh, I’m so happy. _Finn_ , I thought—”

“—me too,” I finish, squeezing her hand. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she sighs. “Everyone’s worrying about me, and I’m worried about Ariadne. And you, obviously. Did you see her?”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s so small,” Lucia says worriedly. “But you, are you all right? No venom or wounds or anything like that?”

“None,” I promise. Still unbelieving, she presses a hand to my shoulder, searching. Apparently satisfied, she holds my hand in both of hers. Then she reads me like a book.

“How are you really feeling, Finnick?” Lucia props a pillow against the wall and leans on it, her fingers tracing across my knuckles. Her green eyes, identical to my own, watch me closely.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m relieved to be home, but . . . watching myself doing those things . . . I killed people. Children. And nothing justifies that at all.”

“There’s the rub,” she mutters, then, louder, “You did what you had to do, Finnick. There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better. The Victory Tour will come and go, and then it will be over. You can lead a normal life.”

“Unless I mentor,” I say bitterly. She sighs.

“Cross that bridge when you get there.”

———

My sister and I stay upstairs as long as possible, just talking. When the sun starts setting, my mother calls up the stairs for us, saying we’re being rude and ignoring the guests.

Lucia insists she’s well enough to go downstairs, but _I_ insist she has to lean on me for a few minutes. In the meantime, my parents have cooked something for everyone. They say it’s their own form of celebration, before I go to the official banquet tomorrow night. Even Mags is there, talking animatedly with Emilia. They both look a little tipsy, which is amusing.

Momentarily left alone, I wander toward the living room, which is also packed with people. Someone moved my trunks in there for the time being. A rectangular case catches my eye; without opening it, I already know the contents. My heart starts to pound.

I slide it toward me and flip open the catches. The hair on my neck pricks; the room is suddenly very quiet. Ignoring my family for a moment, I pull the trident from the plush interior, holding it aloft.

It’s been cleaned; there isn’t a speck of blood in sight. The gold paint gleams brillantly. I find that it still sings when I move it through the air. This isn’t an accident; the Capitol made sure the trident was in my luggage.

It’s illegal to possess weapons in the districts. Even our harpoons and nets must meet strict regulations. I wonder why I’ve been allowed to keep it, and if there are strings attached.

One of my older cousins, Grant, steps forward. He’s seventeen and a bit of a smartass, especially in school. “Hey Finnick, can I take that for a spin?”

I don’t look away from the trident. “No.”

“Come on, Finn, this won you the _Games_ —”

My voice turns cold. “I said no, Grant.”

Something in my expression makes him shrink back. I place the trident back in the case, slam the lid closed, and carry it up to my room. The chatter starts up again when I close my door. Had they been waiting for an outburst like that?

I leave the trident by the door and sink into my old bed. My whole body is shaking like a leaf. I thread my fingers into my hair, trying to find a distraction. Closing my eyes doesn’t help; I see the arena again, covered in blood. The girl from 7, ripped to skin and bone. Holly devoured by the panther. Aleksander howling in his last moments of life.

I realize that until I returned to 4, I had been holding it all back. But even I’m not strong enough to keep everything at bay. The terror crashes over me like a giant swell.

Hours later, Phoebe is there when I wake up, screaming. How spoiled I was in the Capitol, and on the journey home. How foolish I was, to think I wouldn’t carry the arena with me, even in my sleep. I might be able to suppress it in the daylight, but at night, I’m still in Games.

We hear baby Ariadne start crying, and I feel terrible. It’s one thing to have an infant in an overpacked house; it’s another to have a sleepless, traumatized victor.

Erik comes into check on me, telling Phoebe to get some sleep. He sits at the edge of my bed, very patient, and I feel even worse.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t realize—”

“Everyone understands, Finnick,” he says gently. “Mags said that you might need time.”

“You talked to Mags?”

“She was at the party tonight,” he reminds me. “And she’s done this before, many times. Just tell me, what do you want?”

I shake my head. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

He nods. “I’ll help as much as I can. But Finnick, you have to speak up when something is bothering you. No need to scare your cousin half to death.”

I chuckle at that; Erik smiles, pleased. When he departs for his own room, I feel better. Though my troubles are not yet over, I know that my family is there for me. The Odairs are as dependable as the tides; they will not cast me off to carry this burden alone.

———

The camera crews return in the morning, as promised. I answer their questions, pose with my family for pictures, then kindly ask them to get off my property. _We’re moving_ , I say. _Moving to the Victor’s Village_.

Actually, not everyone is moving. I presented the idea at breakfast, and received an enthusiastic response.

My parents, Emilia, Phoebe, and I will be moving into the Victor’s Village. Lucia, Erik, Owen, and Ariadne will stay in our old house, which will become theirs.

What looks to be an all-day affair turns into something finished in two hours. The rest of my family arrives to help, and when I get a minute, I find Grant and apologize. He accepts, almost too quickly, but I know he means it when he traps me in a headlock. A handful of other Odair boys wander over, laughing. With my training and experience, I could have Grant pinned on the ground in five seconds flat. But I’m still trying to earn his trust back, so I let him win.

At lunch, there are a brave few who ask about the Games. My replies are precise; I’m not ready to talk so openly about it yet. No one asks about Holly, something I’m very grateful for.

The banquet actually isn’t that bad. Mags and I are treated to a delicious dinner, and for the first time since arriving home, I relax. Soon things will be back to normal. I know it.

When dinner’s over, I return home and beg Phoebe to go swimming with me. She needs no explanation; she watched nearly every minute of my time in the arena. We chase each other off the pier and I let the water wash away my anxieties. I’m back in 4. The Games are over.

 _This is for you, Holly_ , I think, then complete a complicated dive. Phoebe claps, and this leads to a splash war.

I like to think that Holly is watching me, somewhere, and that she’s happy. Wherever she is, I hope she’s near the sea.

———

It’s been several weeks since my Games. District 4 is still abuzz with my victory, and from what Mathias says when he calls, the Capitol is too.

As for me, I’m still adjusting. I still have a long way to go before I feel comfortable again, but my future is bright. I have a new niece to look after, a trade to learn, and a Victory Tour to complete.

My name is Finnick Odair.

I’m the sixty-fifth victor of the Hunger Games.

I’m the boy with the trident.

And I’m home.

 **END OF PART ONE**


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